


There's a Hand Around my Neck

by 1PB2PB3PB4



Series: Silence is a valid option [1]
Category: Fables: The Wolf Among Us (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Detective Noir, F/M, Gen, Internalised ableism, Mental Health Issues, Murder, Mute Bigby, Muteness, Novelization, Selective Muteness
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-26
Updated: 2021-02-03
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:09:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 19
Words: 55,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25537114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/1PB2PB3PB4/pseuds/1PB2PB3PB4
Summary: He's sick and tired of being seen as a hammer, an animal, a dog. He just wants to help people, and now a girl's dead. There's a stranglehold around his throat like some kind of fabled curse, and they act like because he won't speak he has no mind.Retelling/Novelisation of The Wolf Among Us from the POV of a selectively mute Bigby (silence is a valid option after all)
Relationships: Bigby Wolf & Nerissa (The Wolf Among Us), Colin & Bigby Wolf, Other Relationship Tags to Be Added, Snow White & Bigby Wolf
Series: Silence is a valid option [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2136711
Comments: 39
Kudos: 73





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Don't own the wolf among us, though lots of dialogue will be taken directly from the game. Was inspire by playthroughs of TWAU where people always chose the silent option for Bigby, and one edit where ALL of Bigby's dialogue is cut out, so he doesn't speak at all. Obviously there are lots of times where this wouldn't make sense at all, so I've edited bits, but I just thought it would be interesting to write. Especially when you consider that the girls can't talk freely either.
> 
> This whole thing was born out of the idea of Nerissa and Bigby just bonding over not being able to explicitly say what it is that they want to in that scene in his office.
> 
> This may, not be finished, we'll see, it's really more of a distraction from my TUA fanfic because this has been occupying all my thoughts, but I do have a few more chapters written up already.
> 
> Please let me know what you think, and I hope you enjoy.
> 
> (Also I should say, Bigby's views and opinions and thoughts- particularly regarding his selective muteness- are not indicative of my opinions on the matter. He's just got a lot of self hatred.)  
> Additionally I am not mute, nor selectively mute (though I do experience non-verbal episodes) and I have tried to be respectful, but if anything seems off, or offensive please do let me know.

The Big Bad Wolf, Bigby Wolf, the Sheriff of Fable town, Mr Wolf, Bigby. All the same person. They say he’s stoic, a killer, a feral beast, a little bureaucratic lapdog, the law, the go to problem sorter.

A man of few words.

He hates that one, because it’s not true. Because it is true. Because who knows.

There’s a stranglehold around his throat, and only the barest of sounds can get through. No wonder they seem to consider him an animal when all it seems he can get out most days are growls.

He doesn’t know _why_ he can’t speak- he wants to. Oh god he wants to, there are things he wants to say, things he _needs_ to be heard. But just the thought of opening his mouth sends him into a tailspin, and he can feel his throat closing up on him.

Sometimes Bigby wonders if he’s cursed, or enchanted, or under some kind of spell. Wonders if something _happened_ to him when Snow cut him with the lycanthropic blade. But maybe it’s just him, he’s a pathetic fuck up who can’t even get a few words out to make life easier for everyone around him.

Or to make him seem less like a pretentious tool. It is _frustrating_ having to respond to everything with only a glare, or a glower, or a scowl, or perhaps a judiciously applied eyebrow. His brain is constantly coming up with witty retorts, and cutting remarks, quip and jabs, a few choice words for Crane, some simple words for Snow.

Because he could speak, back in the old lands, the Big Bad Wolf had a voice. True he wasn’t the chattiest fable around, but that was because he didn’t have much to say. Nowadays his lungs are full of unspoken words that can’t be breathed out.

No one expects much of Bigby these days. Whether that’s because they never really expected much of him, or because they’re just so used to his silence now he’s not sure he wants to know. He sees their eyerolls when once again he “plays” the role of the strong and silent type, glaring people into submission, ignoring questions.

They think it’s a role, an act, a game he’s playing- if they’re being kind. Woody probably likes to tell the world it’s because he’s still a mindless beast.

Like he was _ever_ a mindless beast, that’ what makes what he did to Colin and his brothers amongst others so much worse. A beast he may be, but he has a mind, and he would fucking love to give Fable Town a juicy piece of it.

* * *

It’s some stupid hour, stupidly late or stupidly early, Bigby doesn’t know. He’s headed off to Toad’s place in the Bronx because the Woodsman is kicking off again and apparently he’s the only person who’s able to fucking deal with it.

It’s a shithole inside, and the first thing he sees is a three foot toad.

Fable Town in a nutshell.

Toad’s full of excuses that Bigby couldn’t really give less of a rats about, because they’re the same that he always hears from everybody. Lord knows Crane and Snow have made the rules clear enough.

Bigby’s rather proud of his a thousand mile stare. It’s been created out of necessity perhaps, but it’s very good at getting people to talk. He just has to stand there smoking, and staring at Toad, letting the tiredness and annoyance show on his face and the babbling just increases.

It’s amusing, sometimes Bigby wonders how much dirt he could collect by just standing in a room with a Fable, and let their guilty conscience spill out.

Suddenly a woman’s voice rings out, and it startles him out of the power play he’s been enjoying against Toad.

Someone else being up there changes things, one thing for Woody to be kicking off in his own apartment, another if he’s beating on someone.

And then he’s fighting Woody. This same tired old dance, with Woody hurling out the same tired insults that Bigby just lets roll off him. The girl is standing idly in the corner, looking almost bored and he has to wonder why she hasn’t just fucked off already.

Once he’s got Woody on the ground, he turns to her expectantly, waiting for a justification, an explanation, an answer- _something_.

“I’m not leaving until I get what’s mine,” she says, arms crossed with the impatience of someone who does this often.

And ah. He looks at her again, taking it in. Prostitute by the looks and sounds of things. Well that explains what she’s doing here, and her general lack of concern with the whole situation. Still, this squabble? It’s between them. It’s not his fucking job to sort it out, it’s just his job to make sure that they don’t kill each other.

It’s not his job to make sure that everyone goes home safe and unhurt, because lord knows once Bigby’s sent into a situation that option flies out the window.

He’s not a fucking hammer, just because he doesn’t fucking talk.

“Yer nod geddig shid, bidch,” Woody garbles out, nose broken, probably a throat full of blood.

And yeah, that’s taking it a bit too far. Maybe it’s because of his mother, but Bigby’s always had a real big problem with arseholes going around calling people “bitch”. He snarls, almost on instinct, hoping Woody will take the message to shut his fucking mouth.

Fucker won’t, Bigby knows him too well. He breaks the Woodsman’s jaw, and still the shitbag keeps trying to talk. Got to admire that dedication. Maybe this is Woody’s way of proving that he’s better than Bigby.

Bigby can’t even talk when he’s fucking happy, and here’s Woody, beaten 5 ways til Sunday, broken nose, broken jaw, blood everywhere, and still spewing out words like they’re being given away for free.

With Woody out of commission though, he moves over to talk- for a given value of _talk_ at least- to the girl. Partially nosiness, partially to check that everything here is on the up and up. For _both_ parties.

That’s where it starts to get awkward quickly. She’s clearly expecting him to start in on an interrogation, and is fully ready to stand up for herself. She’s not like Toad, it seems, who starts spilling out everything about everyone and their mother before a man can even _think_ about what he wants to know.

Instead he matches her posture, folding his arms, and tilting his head a little. The gesture is clear enough, and he hopes the attitude in his eyes make it clear he’s not fooling around.

He very much wants to know what happened here, and when you can’t say a fucking word, there’s not a very far distance between eyebrow raises and fucking threats when you’re trying to get someone to talk.

It’s all these little tricks you see. Tricks he’s learnt to make it seem less like he can’t talk, and more like he can’t be bothered. Gives people a look as if to say, stop jerking me around, stop wasting my time. The implication they’re such a waste he can’t even be _bothered_ to talk to them.

God knows he can. Life would be so much fucking easier if he could just interrogate a suspect- not that this girl his a suspect.

It helps that he radiates violence and threat, he guesses. The tales of him from the old lands seem to be larger than life sometimes. People aren’t wrong to be wary of him, he guesses. But this was meant to be a new chance.

He doesn’t want to be a fucking hammer.

It doesn’t take long before she concedes, and begins to tell him what she thinks he wants to know. It is, what he wants to know. That’s another thing he’s good at. Or maybe he’s just predictable.

“He asked me if I recognised him… knew who he was… I said I didn’t. He started beating on me. Then you showed up, started beating on him. That about cover it, Hon?” It does more or less. Woody’s proud, and drunk. And a fucking knobhead. It’s also weird being called “Hon”, it feels kind of condescending, which is not unusual per se- but usually everyone is just far more flat out rude.

Or they think they’re being so subtle, because he’s only a dumb animal after all right? It’s not like he understands the subtleties and nuances of speech.

Sanctimonious pricks the Woodlands lot.

But then Woody’s back at it. Brining up ancient fucking history, and brining out the B-word again, and Bigby’s had fucking enough. He’s gonna drag the shitbag out the window, maybe that will help sober him up. 

* * *

When he comes to he’s flat on his back, but he’s too high up to be on the ground. There’s a voice to his side saying something about a car and it takes him a moment to place the voice to Toad.

Poor guy. Bigby might have more sympathy if he didn’t currently ache all over and Toad wasn’t standing out of glamour on a New York street. Toad tells him to make himself comfortable, and being the prick he is, Bigby decides to take him up on that offer, and give himself another few moments to try and get his body to actually listen to him.

“Can I get you anything, pillow perhaps?” Toad asks irritated, folding his arms, and displeasure clear on his face.

Yeah, thanks, Bigby thinks in his head. That would be real nice. Doesn’t say it though. Obviously. Not due to any niceties or self preservation.

He’s a snarky bastard at heart, and it hurts sometimes to have to keep it all in.

He lies there for a bit, just taking the beautiful New York Bronx scenery, the delightful scent of trash and smoke, the wondrous feeling of his definitely not in pain body. Then Toad’s talking again.

“Well at least _you’re_ not fucking dead,” he mutters, and what? Bigby starts to pick himself up to see what Toad’s talking about, and suddenly there’s a shadow looming over him and Woody’s reaching for him.

This is not good. Bigby had been caught unawares by the Woodsman once before and it had ended painfully and wet.

Before he knows it he’s being slammed around, and he’s digging his fingers into the Woodsman’s eyes and face, trying to get purchase, trying to get this chokehold off his neck.

Woody is still fucking talking, all useless drivel until…

“I know you’re fucking in there,” he growls, “Come on out you fucking dog.”

No. Bigby can feel himself being light headed. But no. He’s not just a wolf anymore. He’s not a fucking hammer, he’s more than violence.

Bigby can take and throw a punch, sure. But the Big Bad Wolf is _dangerous_. Having Bigby’s fingers up in your eye sockets is one thing, having his _claws_ is another.

Woody seems to think that Bigby is trying to _prove_ something, by keeping the wolf locked up. He’s trying to keep everyone _safe_. That’s his fucking job. He causes enough carnage.

And if he’s trying to prove to himself that maybe he’s not just good for hurting people, that he can be a fucking person, and do shit that’s more than just hurting people even though everyone seems to think he’s some kind of grunt because he doesn’t talk?

Woody doesn’t need to fucking know that. Fucker wouldn’t appreciate the sentiment anyway.

Bigby knows he only got given the role of Sheriff because he’s tough and dangerous and deadly, they all think want the wolf at play, to keep them all in line.

He _took it_ , though, because of this human form of his. Because _he wanted_ to try and do some fucking good for this fucked up lot.

He’s more than violence.

He can’t breathe. He can’t breathe.

Things are yellowing, and he doesn’t know _why_. Never worked out if everyone’s vision yellows out or if that’s because of _him_ He’s going to phase out here, and _fuck_ , he’s going to prove everyone and that hateful voice in his head _right and-_

An axe enters the back of the Woodsman’s head, and his grasp slackens. He keels over to reveal the girl from earlier, staring slightly afraid, body wary and ready to run, but still there.

He can’t remember the last time a fable helped him. Maybe Snow. What a nice surprise.

He can see it in her face though, she’s seen his eyes.

There’s nothing wrong with being a wolf. His mother had been one. But it’s different now, now that it’s something he only enters through blood and violence. When they all think him an animal because he gets thrown at carnage and doesn’t speak, the last thing he wants is to look like one.

He grunts, shakes his head and gets ahold of himself, before casting his eyes to the Woodsman, who amazingly is still going, crawling down the street before finally collapsing.

The girl leans over him and starts rummaging through his pockets. He furrows his brow, but doesn’t make any direct move to stop her. Let her explain herself, if she tries to do a runner he’d easily be able to catch her.

He bores his eyes into her skull, and perhaps she feels it because she turns around,

“I’m just getting what he owes me,” she explains, going back to her methodical search of his pockets. A pause.

“You alright back there? I mean… you eyes…” there is something that Bigby almost wants to call concern in her voice. It’s touching.

There’s a clink of coins being thrown on the sidewalk as her search through the Woodsman’s pockets come up empty. He goes to offer a sympathetic look, but after a few paltry kicks at the Woodsman she’s off, walking down the streets.

Well, first things first, leaving Woody lying in the street with an axe in his head is a sure fire way of attracting attention and trouble they don’t need. Bigby’s pretty sure a Mundy couldn’t survive something like that. He leans back and pulls, before throwing the axe down in disgust. He’d never quite gotten over how much he hated the fucking thing.

He starts to go after her, watching her struggle to light her cigarette, and stands waiting for her attention. She finally succeeds in wrangling to lighter into submission, and takes a deep drag before glancing up at her face.

She must see something in his expression, and a sorrowful look takes hold of her face.

“These lips are sealed… sorry.” And true to her word, she does sound genuinely remorseful. He narrows his eyes a little, and steps forward, trying to get her to say more.

Her face goes flat again, like she’s thinking, and then out of nowhere a cheerful smile blooms on her face, clashing with the bruises and split lip.

“Hey, you like my ribbon?” and then the false cheer is gone, back into resignation. It’s an odd non-sequitur, and one he can’t quite parse. It feels, wrong… off… odd- almost like she’s trying to say something to him.

Something she doesn’t have the words for. God can Bigby related.

It feels important, what she’s saying, this moment. It feels like it’s one of those moments talked about in books, when Alice falls down the Rabbithole, like he’s standing at the entrance of a maze and has a choice between going left, or going right. As if he’s been summoned to answer a call, and this right here, is the moment he has to decide.

But then maybe it’s just the early morning talking. Everything seems different at midnight. Maybe he’s projecting. She’d been talking just fine earlier, had no problem letting Woody and Bigby have a piece of her mind.

But… he gets it. Never quite being able to say what you really mean. 

“What’s the matter Bigby?” tone lightly teasing, “Tempted to take a bite?” and that’s it, the moment’s over, back to flirting and games.

They stand in silence, which, to be honest, is quite a normal state of affairs for Bigby, what with him being unable to fucking utter a word unless a blue pig has flown around the moon three times backwards. It feels wrong to go though.

There’s something she wants to say, and he will stand here for as long as it takes for her to say it, or decide that it’s not worth it. Words are precious, and they shouldn’t be stamped out before they can be heard.

“I guess those days are behind you,” she says reflectively, looking away and taking another pull of her cigarette. He wonders who she was, before- as a fable. She sounds like she knows change, like she’s one of the ones who’s really acknowledged this whole, “new start” thing.

Not like those woodland schmucks.

But of course she’d know change- there hadn’t been hookers in the old lands. He wonders how many people were spat out and chewed up, and thanks his stars for how lucky he’s been. He wonders if her past self could even imagine this life. Who she was.

“We probably have met.” She says with a little shrug, as if to say I know you were thinking it, “We all sort of knew each other… but things change.”

Heaven knows that’s true. He still wonders a little who she was. But there are so many fables, and they all seem to know him. Whether that’s because he’s the Sheriff or because of his notoriety who knows. Who cares. All it means is that everyone’s made their mind up about him before they’ve even laid eyes on him.

It’s getting a bit intense, and he turns around, breaks eye contact to try and give himself some space. That’s when he sees it or, rather, the lack of it.

There’s a splattering of blood on the road, but no Woody and no axe. Fucking brilliant. He internally sighs and shifts to go and find the fucker before he causes anymore trouble tonight. But as he turns to go he feels a hand clasp around his wrist. He turns around, gaze imploring.

“Stop,” she says, voice firm, and not a little tired, “We don’t have to make anymore of a thing out of it than it already is.”

“I’m fine, really,” she continues, when he just keeps staring, trying to assess if she’s alright, if this is connected to whatever it is she can’t work out the words to say. She turns his back, and then starts as if getting ready to go.

He doesn’t want her to go, not really. He’s got a feeling that whatever it is she hasn’t voiced is something she still needs to say.

“I have to drop off what I have,” she trails off, “But I’ll swing past your apartment later.” A pause and then she laughs a little. “You should get cleaned up, you look like shit.”

He feels it, to be honest, her words bringing it all back. The tacky blood below his nose is all that he can smell, drowning out the stench of the city somehow. She reaches out to touch his face, and while he can feel his whole body stiffen up, he lets her.

No one is ever soft with him. Colin is the closest thing he has to a friend, and besides the fact that the Pig’s a prick there’s too much bad blood between them.

Sometimes he wonders, at night, right now as she gently touches around the cuts on his face, whether he really hates being touched, or if it’s just because these days the only contact he ever seems to have is violence.

Or maybe it’s only violence because he hates being touched. Chicken and egg.

“I need to tell you something,”, and then she leans in close. Bigby wonders if this is it, the thing she’s been dancing around all evening. Her fingers brush his shoulder and he can feel her breath against his face.

“You’re not as bad as everyone says you are.”the girl quickly kisses him on the nose. Then she’s gone, walking back into the night and allowing the city sky to swallow her up while Bigby’s still reeling from it all.

He’s surrounded by rubble and carnage, and blood. But maybe he’s helped one person tonight. This one girl, when she seems him, doesn’t see a hammer.

He’s got to head back to the Woodlands and write this all up. He’s determined to help this girl. This girl who can see through his silence to what he’s trying to say. So how hard can it be for him to see through her words?


	2. Chapter 2

He’s just arrived back at the Woodlands, and his making his way up to the stupidly fancy door when he hears it. There’s a rustling in the bushes, and the hairs on his neck stand up. There’s someone out there, watching him? Hiding from him? Who knows? But it spells trouble.

He folds his arms and puts on a glare that has just the barest threat of violence within it. He makes sure to radiate how fucking done he is with everything tonight, and to make it clear that he’s not going until whoever it is reveals themselves. He holds himself tense, just in case this all starts to go off the rails.

He can’t be bothered, and to be honest nine times out of ten simple intimidation works. It’s something he exudes, something people just expect of him, it’s not something he even has to deliver on. If they don’t stop it then he has a bigger problem. And he’ll have to go over there.

He really can’t be bothered to add any more shit onto his night.

“You’re still standing there, aren’t you?” a resigned female voice echoes out from behind the trees. Tottering slightly on her heels, Beauty emerges from the shrubbery.

He relaxes himself and drops his arms, softens his gaze slightly too. Beauty doesn’t need much pressure, and she seems pretty resigned to the fact that Bigby expects and explanation.

“Hey,” she calls, “I understand it seems odd, but there’s a reasonable explanation.” Her words slow and clear.

Bigby keeps his face passive, trying to encourage her to continue, but his silence just seems to unsettle her. He has that effect on people, and it’s not something he knows how to fix.

Well, he could rustle up some words, but something tells him that’s not gonna fucking happen. Fuck his stupid brain, and his stupid throat, or whatever it is that stops him from being able to just talk like a regular fucking person.

A fucking three foot Toad can talk, but not him.

“Well, if you’re not going to say anything, then I’m going to go,” Beauty tells him a little patronisingly, clearly eager to get away from him. He stands there and listens to her go, just in case she gives him any more useful information before she takes off.

It pays off, Beauty pauses just before she reaches for the gate.

“Please, Bigby… promise me you won’t tell Beast you saw me.” She fully turns around, looking Bigby in the eye, as if searching for some kind of promise or understanding or comprehension.

He refuses to make any promises without information, and nothing seems to make people talk like silence.

Beauty’s words are setting off little alarm bells in his head though. Sure, everyone keeps secrets, married couples doubly so, but…

Beauty’s hugging herself like she’s afraid, and she seems … well. It’s not his business, unless it’s Sheriff business, and he hopes to hell that it’s not Sheriff business. He really fucking hopes.

///////////

As luck would have it, speak of the devil and all that, he’s just gotten into the elevator when Beast himself comes running towards him, asking for Beauty. God does he not want to get involved in this if it’s just a stupid little spat, a marital squabble. And if it’s not…

Well, silence costs Bigby nothing. Let Beast think he’s a belligerent asshole. Tosser probably thinks that anyway, he hears the cut off “Motherfucker” as the doors close.

Bigby’s not really sure what all these people expect though. It’s not like he _ever_ fucking talks, and yet they always seem to expect him too. Maybe he’s just good at covering his silences, it’s not like they _want_ him to speak half the time really. Makes it easier to forget that he’s a person.

Everyone so wrapped up in their lives that they can’t see what’s happening all around them. Hell, tonight’s showed Bigby that _he’s_ so wrapped up in the lives of the Woodlands that there are just fables out there he doesn’t even _know_ , just falling through the cracks.

* * *

There’s a surprise awaiting him in his apartment, he can smell it as soon as he steps off the elevator. He can’t find it within him to be annoyed. He knows he shouldn’t be, but frankly he’s impressed that Colin somehow managed to get from Upstate New York, and into an apartment building without animal control being called.

Then again, Colin’s always been a crafty little shit. His brothers less so.

The neon lights from the street invade the privacy of his apartment like they always do and give everything a faint pink glow that makes it all seem surreal. He just wants to sleep, he’s so fucking tired, and the girl’s meant to be coming soon, and Colin’s in his fucking chair.

He’s only got the one, and it’s not like the pig really needs it.

He jabs him a few times to get his attention, and then stares until Colin gets the message to move his pink ass onto the floor. Bigby might be more amenable to compromise if he weren’t so tired, and if the shithead actually paid rent or something.

Colin would probably say he should be here rent free because of compensation owed or something like that. Colin says a lot of bullshit- enough for the two of them, so it’s not so bad that Bigby doesn’t talk.

He sags into the chair, bone exhausted, with the plan of lighting one up before he finally goes to sleep. Colin, bloody mooch he is, just won’t let him be.

He rolls his eyes and gets up to give him a cig anyway. Pig’s not so bad.

He pointedly raises an eyebrow from Colin to the door once they’re settled, because be as it may that Bigby doesn’t utterly hate Colin’s company, but the pig _shouldn’t_ be here, and Bigby’s not sure if he can be bothered to rustle up the energy to send him back to the farm. Not unless there’s another transport going or something.

Colin for his part refuses to answer, and just takes a few drags. He’ll answer eventually though, they understand each other, Bigby and Colin. It’s not what Colin actually _says_ that’s generally important. In the meanwhile, Bigby decides to go to the kitchen to get himself a drink, because after this night he fucking needs it.

When Colin starts going on about how the farm is some kind of prison, torture camp, hell on earth, not all fun and games spiel, he takes a swig of his drink to show what he thinks of that. It’s the same thing Colin comes up with every time, but he’s the only one who ever seems to leave.

Bigby _would_ go check on it because he has some faith in Colin’s word, but he’s not allowed within five miles of the place so…

He doesn’t feel so bad about when he’s going to have to inevitably send Colin back anyway, because he’ll find some way out again. Always does. As Bigby said, Colin’s a crafty little shit.

They do this dance every time they’re in Bigby’s apartment, Colin beseeching Bigby for a drink, or a smoke, or a chair, or a scratch, bringing up his destroyed house as some kind of guilt trip. Sometimes Bigby goes along with it, sometimes he doesn’t. Tonight he’s just feeling tired.

Colin may be opportunistic, and he may be crafty, but the pig doesn’t hold grudges. Well, maybe the one about his house, but by this point it’s just a thing thrown between them really. Another world and time away. Besides, if the pig hates him so much then why does he keep coming back?

He stares Colin right in the eyes as he takes a swig.

“You know this is why everyone hates you right?” Colin says conversationally.

Hate huh? Yeah, Bigby can see that. Bigby tends to consider himself more like that gum on your shoe that for some reason you remember to be scared of, but who knows. Hate too.

“It probably also has something to do with how engaging you are in conversation,” Colin adds, somewhat acerbically. Low blow. Bigby shoots him a glare for that and goes back to sit in his chair.

Colin sighs a little, and tilts his head in acknowledgement, or maybe apology.

They’d talked about it once- or Colin had talked while Bigby glowered and shrugged. Colin had wrapped it up in snark, asking where his “silvertongue” had gone, and how he was meant to trick naïve people into having their houses destroyed if he didn’t speak, but there had been a genuine question underneath it all, and real concern.

Colin hadn’t brought it up again, but it changed how he talked to Bigby. Less sitting around waiting for a verbal reply from Bigby that wasn’t going to come. A lot of delighting in the fact that Bigby wasn’t gonna explicitly tell him to shut up.

Colin frequently declared himself an expert in knowing what Bigby was actually saying. As Colin loved to remind him, he’d known Bigby’s game as soon as he’d shown up.

“It was what you didn’t say that was real telling,” Colin had told him sanctimoniously. “We did have a good witty repartee, though,” he’d added, slightly wistfully.

Colin starts to speak again, bringing Bigby out of his head and back into the now.

“But no, hate’s the wrong word. They _fear_ you more than anything. You ate a lot of people back in your day.”

And there it is, that’s what it always comes down to. He can’t escape his past, and nobody ever seems to want to look beyond the surface and what they want to see there. A mindless beast, an animal, a killer.

Maybe that’s why Colin’s different, the others hadn’t traded quips and witty retorts as they each tried to trip the other up. Hell, even his plan to get at Red riding hood had been carefully crafted.

This was all meant to be about second chances, he’s not that person anymore. He’s more than anger, and hunger, and violence.

He scowls at Colin.

“Yeah, well, you can’t change people’s memories,” Colin tells him, matter of fact.

Bigby stares off, over his drink, because its’ true. But it’s still fucking shit anyway. Some of it must show on his face. He’s got a very expressive face he feels.

“Look, I’m not saying it’s fair… but it’s real… people are scared of you. I mean, look at your hands.”

Bigby could laugh. His hands, his knuckles, bloodied and battered. This is what it all comes down to, isn’t it. Who cares about the girl he helped tonight, or the conversation he’d had. _You’re not as bad as everyone says you are_. She’d said. But that kind of stuff doesn’t linger around. Just the blood, and the bruises, the battering, and the Woodsman going around town telling tales of how deranged the Wolf was.

He's like a faulty hammer. Everyone loves to deride him, until they realise that he’s been pointed at them.

“Who’d you get in a fight with anyway?” Colin asks, “I sure hope you’re not punching Mundies.”

And wow, what a prick. Bigby can feel his metaphorical hackles rise at the implication and turns his face away angrily so that Colin can’t try and pick anything off of it. He wants to conversation to be over five minutes ago.

“Oh, giving me the silent treatment are we? Two can play that game Bigby.”

Bigby refuses to turn and look at Colin, refuses to lose this edge. He goes back to his chair. This night’s already been far too fucking long, and he can’t be arsed for anymore Colin therapy. He downs the rest of his drink and gets ready to finally get some shut eye, but it seems Colin doesn’t know when to just shut the fuck up.

“That’s the attitude that gets you into trouble,” he says pointedly, “I’m sure you were shitty to everyone you came across tonight.”

And that’s it. He’s fucking done, he’s fucking done with everyone assuming that he’s nothing but sass. Colin’s not teasing anymore, he’s serious. He doesn’t want to have to prove himself, to drag up him trying to do something decent as evidence of him being good.

He doesn’t do this job for the fucking respect.

He stares straight ahead, jaw clenched, and doesn’t move to refute Colin’s statement at all. Just keeps smoking his cigarette.

“That’s what I fucking thought,” Colin continues, rolling his eyes. Then pauses, sighs again, and continues, tone softer, slightly apologetic.

“Life’s easier with friends Bigby, and we live a long fucking time.” Bigby has nothing to say to that. Colin’s his friend, maybe, not really, and all he’s giving Bigby right now is a headache. What the hell is easier about that?

Besides, who wants to be friends with someone who won’t even talk to them.

“I’ve seen the way you look at Snow, okay. You’re not foolin me.” Colin looks like he he’s gonna keep talking, but Bigby has had fucking enough.

“Will you shut up?” He grits out, the words feeling foreign in his throat. But they’ve come out fine.

To be honest, “Will you shut up?” is probably the thing he’s said most over the years, directed at Colin. It’s what dances around his mind, daring to be said.

Colin’s easy, being rude is easy. Saying things before he’s had time to actually process them is kind of easier. Talking around Colin doesn’t feel as risky. There aren’t as many stakes. Wanting to say something doesn’t mean he can say it, and once he’s said something there’s always the trouble that he’ll be stuck only being able to say that.

Like the time he’d had to pinch himself, and dig his nails into his arms, clutching his elbows with all his force so he’d stop saying “move your pungent pink ass” over and over to Colin when he’d found the pig lazing in his chair.

To his credit- or discredit because frankly Bigby _would_ like some fucking peace and quiet, Colin hardly reacts, though his face startles slightly.

“Well, maybe if my throat wasn’t so parched I wouldn’t have to keep talking.” The pig comments snarkily.

That doesn’t even make sense, prick, Bigby thinks, and takes another swig, just to spite the asshole.

“I hate you,” Colin calls out as he trots away, likely to go and catch some sleep himself. Bigby smiles a little, and finally leans back and lowers himself into sleep.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once more dialogue is taken directly from the game.  
> I hope you're enjoying this, and please let me know if you are! Also if you see any glaring errors.

He’s startled awake by a frantic knocking on his door, and leans forward, who-?

 _The girl_. She’d said she’d be coming by. He hadn’t really thought it’d be this soon though. The banging persists, a steady staccato rhythm that refuses to let up.

He swings open the door, trying to place a reassuring and welcoming smile on his face.

It’s not the girl from earlier at the door. It’s Snow.

Snow is many things, impolite or improper are not any of them. If she’s banging on his door at ass O’clock in the morning then something is wrong.

He stares at her worriedly as they walk down the corridor, imploring her with his eyes to say what’s happening, what’s going on. She’s clearly rattled, and none of this bodes well.

“These walls are paper thin,” she mutters, “We’ll talk outside.”

The unease and tension in Bigby continues to grow, and he desperately wants, needs, to know what’s happening. But he trusts Snow’s judgement. If this is a conversation that needs to happen outside, then it needs to happen outside. No point in trying to pressure her.

There’s a small mound out on the entrance way, covered in something dark and navy. Presumably to hide or disguise whatever it is.

Thing is, Bigby doesn’t needs his eyes to know what’s under there, this close the scent of blood is there, rusty in nostrils. He heads determined to uncover it, discover what exactly lies beneath.

It’s the girl from earlier, her eyes still battered, and her ribbon in her mouth.

Was it her pimp? Was it on the way here? Was it just random chance.

Snow is talking, and he tunes himself back in, because this is his job now. Not his feelings, this is about getting justice for the people spat out chewed up, and then spat right back out again.

“Do you know her? She’s not a mundy right?” Snow sound, terrified at the prospect.

He shakes his head, no.

“Who was she? I thought I knew everyone in fable town…” Snow trails off, and Bigby can’t fault her for not knowing. Bigby didn’t even know this girl existed but a few hours ago, and now she’s dead and he still doesn’t know her name.

Snow’s face tightens, looks at Bigby, and tightens further. “I feel like there’s something you’re not telling me.” She says, voice steady, and crosses her arms.

Pimp, he wants to say. We should talk to her pimp. But he can’t get the words out, and this is fucking _important_. This has been one of the few times in his life when he has _needed_ to say something, not wanted, needed.

Look at him, tongue tied and pathetic even when someone’s dead.

Snow seems to have realised she’s not going to get any words out of Bigby tonight, or at least she puts to rest her suspicions that he may know more.

She continues speaking, nothing important really, how terrible it is, what a tragedy, then.

“I found her like this, I can’t tell you much else,” she shrugs helplessly. “You don’t think one of us did this?”

Bigby slowly raises and lowers one of his shoulders, still staring at the head of the dead girl.

“Okay, more reason for us to be careful, and keep this quiet. We don’t want to start a panic,” Snow says, authoritatively. She seems to talk a lot when she’s nervous. Maybe she finds comfort in finding the right thing to say while Bigby retreats into silence.

“Have a look around while we still can Bigby.”

Her ribbon’s been placed in her mouth deliberately, and there’s an old looking ring tied on it. Old-looking as in _old_ , as in back home.

Snow’s asking for advice, for help, for what to do, and Bigby can’t answer her.

Snow’s a funny one, she seems to accept his silence as more than belligerence or intimidation, seems to understand maybe it’s something he can’t control. But then sometimes it’s like she forgets, and she asks him all these questions and talks to him like she’s awaiting a reply.

“I’m going to have to tell Crane about this,” she says after a while of Bigby checking he’s thoroughly examined the girl’s decapitated head. It’s clear she’s uncomfortable bringing this up, but it catches Bigby’s attention sharply.

He turns his head around to let his disgust at the idea be seen clearly upon his face.

Crane won’t know what to do, Crane wouldn’t know what to do if a magic book came to him singing and dancing saying “here’s what you have to do sir!” Pompous useless waste of space.

“As long as King Cole is gone, he’s acting Mayor… he needs to know,” Snow counters, trying to sound deliberate. On the one hand he admires her dedication to the job, and intellectually understands that she’s right. On the other hand, well, it’s _Crane_.

Snow raises all good points, so he breathes out and rolls his eyes, but doesn’t make any effort to actually protest.

As Snow says, it’s part of the job.

“We need to find out who she was,” Snow tells him, “take her to Dr Swineheart, and then come back here. She ought to be in the books.” She walks off.

Great, so now Bigby has the decapitated head of a girl, one that’s still _dripping_ slightly, and he has to somehow transport it- _her_ \- in secret to Swineheart without anybody being any the wiser.

Fucking brilliant.

He has no idea what time it is, and whether he’s got a better bet of going to Swineheart’s office, or his apartment. There are just so, many, things, and he doesn’t _know_ , and fuck.

But this is his job, this is what he’s meant to do and remembering that makes it all a bit easier. It’s like doing a paint by numbers. He’s on a tight schedule so it narrows his options. Snow’s expecting him in the business office and he’s going to have contact Swinehart anyway. He’ll drop the head at the apartment, briefly fill Swineheart in (very briefly, Faith’s head ought to speak for herself), and then leg it back to the business office.

He's never been so grateful than Mundy cab drivers give less than zero of a shit.

* * *

There’s already a queue outside the business office as he approaches, looking a mix of downtrodden and belligerent. It’s not an unusual sight, but it does give Bigby pause when he thinks about how _early_ they must have gotten here to queue up.

Fable town’s a fucking mess and they’re all just trying to get some help, too bad Crane’s an incompetent shithead. Who frankly, in Bigby’s opinion, is a waste of the oxygen he breathes.

“What’re you Blind?” Grendel growls out from behind as Bigby passes him, “What? You don’t see there’s a line? I’ve been standing here a half hour already.”

And Bigby does not have fucking time for this stupid powerplay, and turns around to give Grendel a look which tells him exactly what the hell he thinks about all this.

Grendel’s advancing on him now, sure steps like he’s just itching for a fight: “You get to just walk in? Must be nice being the Sheriff… Do whatever the fuck you like.”

Yeah, real nice Bigby thinks. So fucking nice I get to be personally responsible for dealing with all the fucked up shit all of you do. He’s got nothing to fucking say to Grendel, doesn’t have time to waste. Besides, the fucking idiot seems to have forgotten that Bigby fucking works here. He doesn’t even bother sparing the asshole a second glance as he pushes open the door to the business office and walks inside.

“Fucker…” he hears as the door creaks shut. Yeah well, that makes two of them.

* * *

Crane is shouting at Snow, because of course he is. The shitheel gets scared and then takes it out on everyone around him, trying to make himself feel important.

God the way he’s talking you’d think Snow had deliberately killed the girl and placed her on the doorstep herself.

A girl is dead, and even now all that Crane can see is the inconvenience. Crane’s exactly the kind of piece of shit that would harp on about how it was because a girl’s skirt was “too short”. He’s placing the blame on _her_ , for being fucking _murdered_.

Bigby straightens out his fingers, deliberately keeping them out of a fist. God knows he wants to do violence, but that’s not going to help anything, to help _her_ , so no. Got to finish this stupid façade of a briefing, and then he and Snow can try and get some leads.

“You are to blame for this unpleasantness Miss Snow!” Crane splutters, spit flying as Bigby finally reaches the pair and moves to stand next to Snow.

“I brought this to you as soon as I could!” she countered, and Bigby wishes he could step in, say something, let her _know_ he has his back. Maybe throw a few choice words at Crane, the fucker. He even opens his mouth a little but to no avail.

“You are trusted to keep things running smoothly around here! This is a disaster!” Crane continues. That makes Bigby see red. Maybe it’s his job, and Bigby sure does feel guilty, maybe it’s Crane’s job, what with the fucker being _acting mayor_ , but it sure as hell isn’t _Snow’s_ job. Once more Crane has managed to make someone else’s murder all about him.

But Bigby can’t say anything, and the only other language he has that will get through to Crane is violence. But not here, not now, violence is not a valid option.

Snow shoots him a hurt look at his lack of interference and he wants to ask _what?_ What should I have fucking done. But then Crane takes his silence, and his oh so careful restraint as _agreement_ , but can’t help but throw in a little dig about Bigby’s incompetence.

Normally Bigby would think that was a bit rich, coming from Crane, but Bigby can’t shift his guilt, he’d seen her only hours earlier. He can’t help but feel that yeah, he _is_ to blame.

Finally though, Crane sits down at his desk, and starts asking the right kind of questions, and _almost_ acting like he can actually do his fucking job.

“Any leads, suspects? Anything? Anything at all?” Crane demands, as Snow takes a seat and Bigby moves to join her.

Bigby has his ideas, but nothing he really wants to share with Crane, even if he could, but he feels the two of them just staying quiet and offering nothing isn’t going to help either. Whether or not the pimp did it Bigby doesn’t know, but it sure as hell seems like a good place to start.

But if Bigby nods, then Crane is going to get that eager look, and start asking questions, hounding for specifics that Bigby just can’t fucking give. He refuses to lower himself to the indignity of charades. It’s not like he needs Crane for this anyway, once he fucks off he can start doing some real work with Snow.

Snow at least seems to appreciate that when talking to Bigby it’s less about listening, and more about looking. There’s a big reason Bigby really tries to limit his contact with Crane. So if they just sit there and say nothing after all, Crane will blow steam for a bit, but then he should fuck off and they’ll be able to get down to the real work.

“Bluebeard came to mind,” Snow starts, clearly wanting to just give Crane something to get him off their backs. Bigby can’t help but cringe a little bit though. It’s not really Snow’s fault, because it’s not like he’s given her _anything_ , but still.

It’s not that he thinks Bluebeard is all innocent, and to be honest sometimes he wonders if he should just _pop in_ for a visit on the guy. But if Bluebeard is going around killing women- _again_ \- then Bigby would bet the shitbag would be going after Mundys. Definitely wouldn’t be getting caught and deliberately placing heads for the world to see.

See, Bluebeard’s rich, and he’s got power and money and influence. Not like most of them. But that means, that unlike most of them, Bluebeard has quite a lot to lose.

So yeah, Bigby would bet that bloody Tiny Tim has a better chance of being wrapped up in all of this than Bluebeard.

“It’s his M.O. It’s shaky, but…” she continues before being cut off by Crane.

“Don’t be absurd! Bluebeard is out of the country as we speak, so don’t even think about accusing him of such a treacherous affair! You need to get a handle on this situation!”

God he hates Crane. Still, soon enough he’ll be out of their hair, and then maybe some actual work can be done. Look at him, going off for a _massage_ and demanding _wine_ and then having the gall to still criticise _them_.

But Crane has to just be _more_ of an insufferable burden.

“Do your job Sheriff… or we’ll find someone who can.”

Oh that’s fucking rich. So fucking rich coming from the weasely waste of space who’s been holding him _up_ for the past five minutes.

He scowls at Crane’s retreating back and can feel himself itching to move, to cut the fucker off and shake him, shake him until the man really realises the gravity of this situation. Crane’s gone before he can make his mind up though.

Snow takes one look at him and shakes her head, don’t bother.

“You would have just pissed him off more,” a sigh, “Well that could have gone better.” A sentiment Bigby can echo exactly as he lights up a smoke.

“Oh, Crane doesn’t like it when people smoke in-“ she stops abruptly as Bigby gives her a look to tell her _exactly_ where Crane can shove what he does and doesn’t like.

“Never mind,” she says instead, and is that a hint of smugness he senses in her tone? But finally it’s just the two of them, and maybe they can actually get some work fucking _done._


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had to take some liberties with the magic mirror here in order to keep the plot rolling, so yeah.  
> Again, dialogue is taken directly from the game, and I apologise for any spelling or grammar mistakes.
> 
> I hope you're still enjoying it.

It turns out that they’re not actually alone, of course, because as soon as Crane’s taken off, a green monkey emerges from behind the shelves, clutching a bottle of liquor.

“How are you today Mr Bigby?” Bufkin asks eagerly. Cheerful little monkey, bit of a thief, but he only tends to take from Crane so, whatever.

Bigby just stares back at him, unimpressed though, until Bufkin realises his faux pas, and awkwardly apologises. He’s here because of a fucking murder and Bigby can count on one hand the number of people who actually seem to have clocked that he _can’t_ , or at least _won’t_ , speak, and three of them are right here in the business office. How the fuck does Bufkin think he is.

Snow sends Bufkin off to get the books, and suggests he try and take a look around while she cleans up Crane’s messes and the sentence he’s been dreading comes out.

“Maybe the mirror can help.”

_Fuck_ the Magic Mirror. Sometimes Bigby thinks he might hate that asshole more than Crane. The fucking mirror knows full well what’s going, what people want to know, and how to give it, but it still demands that people prostrate themselves before it by speaking in fucking rhymes.

“And Bigby?” Snow calls out, holding the telephone receiver midway between her ear, “Let me know if you need anything.”

Like if you need help turning the mirror on, Bigby thinks bitterly. But that’s not fair, Snow just wants to help him, she’d probably say that even if he wasn’t a useless silent waste. He doesn’t want to bother her though, be a burden, besides, she’s got her hands full dealing with Crane- that giant baby.

Bigby straightens his tie, and then stares up at the mirror, which instantly flares to life.

“You know the rule.” The mirror says, voice cold as always, those empty eyes staring back at them.

 _Fuck your stupid rules_ , Bigby thinks very deliberately back at that green asshole. A girl is _dead_. You _know_ what I fucking want.

“Your impatience is callow, you’re needlessly cruel, but have some respect for our historied rules.” The mirror returns, impassive as ever.

Have some fucking respect for the guy who can’t speak Bigby thinks back bitterly. See, this is why he hates the mirror. So fucking full of itself, and it _knows_ , it fucking _knows._

* * *

Some time ago (quite a long time ago) Bigby had been in the business office, back before King Cole had gone, in the hopes of finding Snow. She hadn’t been there, but in some ways that had actually been better, because Bigby could just give her the lowdown on a little note and then leave it for her to find.

Bufkin had been there though, and had flapped over, probably as soon as he’d seen Bigby arrive, and then hung around awkwardly as Bigby wrote down the details and names involved in the fight he’d just broken up.

“Hey Bigby,” Bufkin called, from where he sat on the desk beside him. Bigby absently waved his free hand at the monkey in the hopes that he’d be left alone. Fat chance of that.

Then, “I was getting the mirror to show me where you all were earlier. Snow’s getting lunch.” A pause, “The mirror says you’re a mute.” As Bufkin says this, he flies back slightly, backwards out of Bigby’s reach.

The pencil in his grasp snaps in two where he’s been holding it and everything stops for a bit.

“It’s not bad! It’s not bad!” Bufkin says hurriedly, voice squeaking a little, “I just thought I’d ask if, well, that’s why you don’t talk right? You’re not just grumpy all the time. But I’ve heard you talk to Snow. You definitely said she had nice hair once because she was smiling about it all day…” The monkey trails off, confusion clear.

Slowly Bigby forces himself to look up, and stare directly at Bufkin, daring him to keep talking, urging him to tell him what the mirror said. Bigby doesn’t know what he wants. They both stand there for a bit, bodies tense, as Bigby slowly breathes in and out.

If ever there was a time where it would be really helpful to say something it would be now. But the idea is ludicrous, because with the amount of thoughts and _things_ going around his head right now there is no chance in hell he’s getting anything out.

Bigby stalks off to the magic mirror, and beckons for Bufkin to come and join him, making sures his eyes broker no argument.

“So the mirror _was_ right?” Bufkin says warily as he flies over to Bigby. For his part Bigby just ignores him and snaps his fingers, pointing from Bufkin to the mirror.

“Mirror Mirror if you’re able, tell me all about this fable.” Bufkin promptly says, still looking a little scared and very confused.

Bigby would feel worse for the monkey if he didn’t feel like his heart was about to beat out of his chest. He’s got lots of tricks and he’s good at covering, and it helps that no one expects anything out of him anyway, but it’s one thing for everyone to think he’s silent and too stupid to have anything to say. It’s another for the whole of fable town to _know_ that whenever he tries to speak he can feel his tongue turning itself into knots inside his mouth.

“Of What Fable do you wish to know?” The mirror calls out, and Bigby’s never really talked to the mirror before, always had reasons why someone else should. Bigby’s not made uncomfortable by much ~~(besides _talking_ )~~ but there is something vaguely unsettling staring into the cold empty eyes of the Magic Mirror and not seeing anything back.

Bigby shakes himself out of it and turns to once more stare pointedly at Bufkin.

“Oh! Uh, I think Bigby wants to know why you said he can’t speak…” Bufkin trails off, looking to Bigby for confirmation.

“Others seek what I can find, so I must be inside your minds.” The Mirror replies sagely. And that… that’s concerning. Because what is in Bigby’s head is _private_. That’s why he doesn’t _say_ this shit, sure there are some thought he’d prefer to share, but most of them…

 _Do you know what I’m thinking right now?_ Bigby thinks as urgently and deliberately as he can, trying to project his thoughts onto the mirror. But that didn’t rhyme, oh shit, what can he make rhyme and-

“Yes.” The mirror says out of nowhere. It’s the only real luxury the mirror will ever afford him, but at the time Bigby’s too surprised and horrified to be grateful.

His thoughts are flying round his head faster than ever now, so fast that Bigby can barely keep up. It’s like they’re terrified of being heard by an outsider.

He puts a finger to his lips, and then makes a jerky “zip it” sign, snarling and baring his teeth slightly before stalking out of the office.

Bufkin had always been different since then, _treated_ him differently.

See, Bufkin’s nice, not like Colin. Colin’s too much of a prick to ever pity anyone. Which works well for Bigby. Because he doesn’t fucking need pity, and he sure as hell doesn’t want it.

* * *

So yeah. That’s why Bigby fucking hates the fucking mirror. Because it _can_ just answer things straight up, and it doesn’t even fucking _need_ Bigby to physically voice things, but it likes to be a fucking ass because “tradition” or whatnot.

“Your impatience is callow, you’re needlessly cruel, but have some respect for our historied rules.”

Historied rules his ass. Also, he’s still not comfortable with the fact that it seems to read his thoughts. But it does seem to have more luck with projected ones, so that’s something.

 _I need you to tell me about this fable_ , he thinks, and tries to add as much politeness as he can. It’s hard, he has no warm or fuzzy feelings towards the mirror.

A sentiment which seems to be echoed by the Mirror.

“What a shock, how can this be? Shame Bigby Wolf can’t talk to me,” the Mirror hisses back, loud enough for Bigby to hear, but not loud enough that Snow would be able to catch.

Self-righteous, sanctimonious, green prick. Bigby flips the mirror the bird, see what it makes of that.

“There’s no need for that,” The Mirror states reprovingly to which Bigby rolls his eyes.

 _Fine._ He’s going to try. Maybe if he just mouths it, it will be enough to count as “respecting tradition” or whatever.

He gets as far as the “a” in “able” before he freezes up.

**You continue doing that and you’re going to regret it. You piece of shit.**

It’s the little hateful voice in his mind, the one that loves to tell him he’s a hammer, and shit, and a wee little bitch. Forget Crane and the mirror, _this_ is who he hates the most. But it’s not like it can actually _do_ anything. Just all his worst thoughts reflected back at him.

He steels himself and starts moving his lips to form around the letter “b”.

**What did I fucking say, _dog._**

And that’s it. He can’t even fucking _pretend_ to say it. It had been a slim hope to be honest. Even mouthing words was a little to close to talking for his brain evidently. But it still makes himself feel even more angry at himself.

“For the magic to work, words must be said, but it is wrong, the hate in your head.” The mirror tells him.

Just perfect, can’t the mirror give him _one_ fucking freebie. He scowls at the mirror once more, for good measure. See, this is why Bigby hates the mirror reading his thoughts. He knows everything Bigby thinks, knows that he can’t talk, and the Mirror even gets to hear the little voice telling him _why._

It makes Bigby feel exposed and vulnerable, and it’s not a feeling he fucking likes. It’s one he’s taken pretty big strides to avoid ever since he got chopped up and thrown in the river.

Whatever. It’s not like the Mirror’s going to be much use anyway, not until they find out the girls name. He can wait for Bufkin to get back with the books, and then he and Snow can interrogate the mirror together. Or rather, Snow can do all the heavy lifting of asking the questions and Bigby can just think it all through.

* * *

A crash signals Bufkin’s return as books spill to the ground.

The first book, the one with the scene of them all, is frankly, beautiful. Sure, it takes more of the Mundy version of things, but the colours are rich and vibrant, and he enjoys looking at the illustrations.

It’s weird seeing the wolf version of him Especially now, when these days whenever he looks at his reflection he sees a feeble imitation of a man. Not quite a human, not quite a wolf. Some kind of hodge podge in between.

He always gets a small shock of amusement when he sees Crane fleeing from a headless horseman. Truly the man’s finest hour.

It’s as he’s flicking through the books, not really sure what he’s looking for, that Bufkin plops down beside him.

“I can help,” Bufkin offers, “maybe it will brighten your shitty mood a little,” he adds, rather more bitterly.

Whatever, they’re working on a _murder_ investigation. Why should Bigby be in a good mood?

Bigby shows him the ring, the one which matches the pattern in the book, and Bufkin suddenly decides to make clear _why_ they hire him, because the monkey can actually _read_ the archaic writing.

Allerleirauh. It doesn’t sound familiar, or start to ring any bells. But Bufkin seems to know something as he flaps off.

“Allerleirauh,” Snow says contemplatively, “means every kind of fur in German.” Bigby would love to pretend that that helped clear up matters for him, but it hasn’t. He’s still just as clueless as before.

“Donkeyskin!” Bufkin calls out, from where he’s returned with his book, he waits for them to walk over to him before continuing.

“Donkeyskin girl, AKA Donkeyskin, AKA-“ here Bufkin cuts himself off with his hoarse laughing and Bigby feels irritation lance up once more. Donkeyskin has been murdered, and here’s Bufkin, _laughing_ at a dead girl.

Bigby just narrows his eyes and waits.

Eventually Bufkin’s laughter begins to taper off and he continues reading from the book, “AKA Ass’ skin-” and there are a few more chuckles, “-prefers to go by the name Faith. Poetic!” and then Bufkin’s off again, laughing.

That girl is _dead_ , Bigby thinks. Grow the fuck up and show some respect. Then Snow cuts in, clearly sharing his thoughts.

“We don’t need the commentary Bufkin.”

It’s a sad story. That’s nothing special. Most of them are. At least her father seems to have been relatively decent, letting her get out.

Folklore, full of shitbags, Bigby amongst them.

She has a husband, which is useful to know. A prince “Lawrence” according to Bufkin, and that finally gives them a lead, a solid lead better than “some pimp.” Whether or not this Lawrence is involved remains to be seen, but surely he would have to have some kind of information.

Bigby rubs his face and paces around, because none of this is good. Once he’s got his thoughts into some kind of order, he turns and stares deliberately at Snow, before motioning his head to the door.

“You think he did it?” Snow asks, and Bigby just shrugs. Who knows, regardless they need to talk to him, notify him, get information, all of it. Besides, as Snow says, princes can be absolute fucking bastards.

At least they have some leads to go to with the Mirror now, and he waves for Snow to follow him as they head to the mirror.

“Who do you reckon we should ask about first, Bigby? Prince Lawrence I guess?” Snow asks, letting him take the lead.

He scrunches his nose, and makes a later gesture with his hand, holding up Faith’s ring in reply.

Snow nods, “Tell us about Faith,” she commands the mirror, so effortlessly. Bigby can’t quite get a read on her, but if she thinks him useless he can see why.

Stupid mutt can’t even speak. And that sounds suspiciously like the stupid hateful little voice, so he shakes his head and instead focuses on the mirror.

“Through powerful magic her whereabouts concealed. Unfortunately for you, “These lips are sealed.””

Bigby gives the mirror another glare and tries to convey with just his eyes what he thinks of _that_ bullshit.

 _These lips are sealed._ Yeah right, unless the mirror’s blabbing out all _his_ secrets. He sighs, that’s uncharitable, and also worrisome.

“These lips are sealed,” the mirror echoes, “It’s not my choice of phrasing Bigby. It’s simply the way this has to be.”

Yeah, definitely worrying, the Mirror’s a prick, but it definitely _chooses_ what it has to say. If something is somehow controlling it…

Those had been the exact words Faith had said too, when he’d been trying to work out how to help her, and she hadn’t been able to say. What had seemed like a slightly odd choice of phrase is now starting to smell more and more off.

Bigby almost wants to say conspiracy, but that would be ludicrous.

There’s nothing to be learned here from the mirror though, so Bigby turns to Snow who nods, and asks the mirror to show them Lawrence instead.

The mirror shows a man, draped in a chair, and surrounded by blood. _Conspiracy_ , his brain whispers again, but he shakes his head. No point in thinking like that, before they have all the facts. Before they have _any_ of the facts.

He turns to Snow urgently, who’s face is wide open in horror and shocked. He waves frantically at the sight in the mirror, and somehow Snow seems to get it, and starts rattling off where the different groups of fables live.

Snow always seems to get what he means. It makes it hard to fault her for the fact she still keeps asking him questions he just can’t answer. Though in her defence, she _is_ the person Bigby speaks to the most. Just, not now, with Crane, and Faith and everything. His head is buzzing and the words are definitely _not_ lining up to leave his mouth.

Snow offers to take him over to Lawrence’s and it’s a plan, but just as they’re leaving to go the phone starts to ring. Bigby understands that she has to answer it, but his foot is tapping with impatience all the while.

“It’s for you,” Snow says, holding out the phone. See, Bigby doesn’t have a phone in his office, courtesy of the fact that it’s not like he’s going to talk to anyone on it. He does much better face to face. This _does_ mean that anyone trying to get a hold of him has to go through the business office, but frankly Bigby thinks it all works much better this way.

Toad sounds, urgent and there’s a lot of banging. It doesn’t sound good. But… Lawrence. If the prince were just a suspect, or a relative, Bigby would probably grit his teeth and go to Toad’s, even though he’s prone to crying wolf.

But the blood, the scene in the mirror…

Something tells Bigby he needs to get over to South Bronx, and _pronto_.


	5. Chapter 5

“Toad’s a tough… Toad,” Snow says to Bigby as they exit the Woodlands. Whether the reassurance is aimed more for him or her he’s not sure.

It’s not long until they arrive at the apartments which house the princes. There’s traffic screeching all around them, but the sun’s finally come up so at least that’s something.

“I don’t want to stay here any longer than we have to, so lets just pick and approach and stick to it, okay?” Snow tells him seriously, before they reach the doors to the building.

He shrugs, no problem by him, and stands there, letting her choose what approach she wants to go for.

“Thanks,” Snow nods appreciatively, “Okay, let’s just keep our focus on questioning Lawrence. Where she was, who she was with… that sort of thing”

The window on the ground floor is open, and a salty tang is coming out of it. Bigby’s bad feeling about Lawrence just keeps growing. He goes to peer in, and he sees the same shoes from the mirror. Leaning back he nods to Snow, and then goes to open the window properly to enter the apartment.

As luck would have it, at that moment a police car drives past, and while it doesn’t stop it serves well to remind Bigby to be cautious. Really the last thing they need are Mundy cops trying to work out why two people are breaking into an apartment, and potentially right in the middle of a Fable murder investigation.

Fables as a rule tend to try and avoid Mundys, that goes double for Mundy cops. Bigby in particular feels like he wouldn’t fare well in an interrogation room, not on the other side of the table at least.

He waits a little longer, and does a quick sweep of the area to check there’s no one around before finally squeezing himself through the window.

Once he’s in he crouches and turns around to pull Snow into the apartment as well.

The stench of decay and blood is strong in the apartment, so strong it actually takes Bigby off guard for a moment, and the air is thick and heavy. There are flies buzzing around obnoxiously.

Lawrence lies slumped, dead in his chair, and while Snow goes to investigate the unread mail by the door, Bigby goes to take a better look at the prince.

There’s a knife on the floor, covered in blood, and long gashes down the length of his arms.

There’s also what looks like a bullet hole in his chest, and a few open, but empty, bottles of pills beside him.

Fables are real hard to kill, after all.

Snow’s come over from where she was looking over the mail, presumably having found nothing of importance.

“I just don’t understand… why would someone want to kill him?” Snow asks, the bewilderment evident on both her face and in her voice.

Rising from his crouched position, Bigby turns and gives her a sharp, but significant look.

After all, if a murderer was this persistent, they would have- well, finished the job, so to speak.

And they wouldn’t have left the gun behind either.

The blood’s dry, it’s been there for a while. Bigby wonders when it happened, whether it happened over several days.

When they pull down the bed, they discover a note to Faith from Lawrence, which removes any lingering doubt about what happened here from Bigby’s mind.

Also judging by the note, it doesn’t look like Lawrence had any part in Faith’s death, which is, _something_ , he guesses.

He hands the note over to Snow, and once she’s read it she looks up at him, his sorrow mirrored on her face.

Bigby hears a coughing, a spluttering, and then:

“Bigby! He’s _alive_!” Snow calls, and what? Bigby doesn’t know whether to be impressed or not, to be honest.

“What… What are you doing here?” Lawrence chokes out, as he falls forward onto the carpet. Bigby darts forward to put the man back to rights.

“What’s going on?” Lawrence asks again, sounding confused and a little scared. Bigby can’t blame the guy, he’s probably disoriented at the very least, and Bigby can’t help but think that this is a terrible fucking awful time to break the news of his wife’s death.

He shakes his head, barely perceptible, while keeping his focus on Lawrence. He hopes Snow gets the memo (that is if she doesn’t already agree) to _not_ tell Lawrence about Faith at this time. It can wait, god can it wait.

“What did you _do_ , Lawrence?” and Snow honestly sounds heartbroken, sounds genuinely remorseful over this guy she’s never even met. It’s not like Bigby is finding this whole thing to be a picnic, but he can’t muster that level of emotion.

Maybe he’s just jaded.

“I, shit,” Lawrence pauses, stares at them and then decides to continue anyway, “I shot myself in the heart, thought I’d be dead by now.”

Bigby leans a bit closer, and yeah, nah. Shakes his head, and lightly taps on Lawrence’s chest where the heart _actually_ is. Seems Lawrence had missed, luckily for him.

Then Lawrence is talking about bad dreams, and fuzzy memories, and confusion. It puts a bad taste in Bigby’s mouth, sure, he’d expect being confused after… well after shooting yourself in the chest and then sitting there for however long could cause some confusion, but the little part of his brain that keeps calling conspiracy is feeling more and more vindicated.

“I’m a fucking burden, I’m useless… I don’t want her to have to worry about her anymore… She’s better off without me.” Lawrence says, voice tired and cracking slightly.

Bigby doesn’t know what to say to that, he feels like he should say something to help, but what- but _how_. How’s a useless waste like him who can’t even _talk_ meant to try and do his job and help this man?

He squashes down the niggling thought that the shitty little voice in his head sounds oddly like Lawrence does in this moment.

“Go away, just fucking go away,” and the prince is full out crying now, tears going down his cheeks. Part of Bigby feels like he should try and touch him, reassure him somehow, most of him is afraid of startling Lawrence further, and the small remainder recoils at the idea of reaching out and making physical contact.

It seems Snow can’t take the tension any longer, she’s starting to crack. Or maybe Bigby’s luck is finally starting to run out and Snow didn’t read his headshake.

“I’m sorry but your wife- your wife was murdered.” She tells him sorrowfully, but quickly, no beating around the bush, and shaking her head lightly in sympathy as she does so.

It’s painful to watch Lawrence’s reaction, he’s crying and if the man wasn’t so injured Bigby would bet the man would be moving around breaking things.

 _“Fucking Georgie,”_ Lawrence mumbles out, and then goes quiet. Bigby latches onto that, Georgie, a name. It’s not one Bigby recognises, but it’s a start, and it doesn’t seem like Lawrence has any fondness for the man, which is just making Bigby more eager to find this guy, and have a conversation with him.

Well, for a given meaning of conversation anyway.

Before Snow can follow up on that thread however, they are interrupted by a persistent knocking at the door. There’s someone out there, and they’re pretty insistent on breaking in.

Bigby and Snow go to hide in the cupboard, and leave Lawrence to play dead. The scent of conspiracy is just growing.

It’s a short thickset man, and the term “brick shithouse” springs to mind. He’s yet another man Bigby doesn’t recognise, though considering everything he’s probably a fable. It’s starting to become alarming to Bigby just how many fables there are that he doesn’t even know _exist_.

As the intruder approaches Lawrenece, Bigby leaps out at him, he doesn’t know why the man’s here but it can’t be for anything good.

At least he’d _meant_ to leap out, but the closet door sticks and the intruder is out of the apartment before Bigby can get himself out of the closet.

* * *

He gives chase, but the man is a surprisingly good runner for his size. Because trust him, Bigby can _run_ , but this man is still able to keep a decent amount of distance between them.

There’s that saying that only the guilty run, and when the guy starts lobbing tables and vases at his head Bigby quickly loses any benefit of the doubt he was willing to give the guy.

He catches up with him trying and struggling to wriggle his way out of the window, but as Bigby goes to pull the man back he is rewarded with a swift boot to the face.

He misses the landing, but is able to keep following the intruder just from the noise and the screaming the shitheads making. He lands on the guy in a dumpster.

Thanks for breaking my fall dickhead, he thinks. Appreciate the soft landing. Doesn’t say it. _Obviously_.

Once he’s dragged the guy out of the dumpster, he starts to circle him, partially to get his breath back, partially to size him up, but mostly as an intimidation tactic, he’s betting this guy will crack easily. Nothing incriminating sure, but stuff that could be helpful anyway.

Nothing seems to get people talking like silence.

Apparently he’s a PI, and they’re “alike”, Bigby gives him a flat and unimpressed glare at that remark. Considering he’s caught this guy almost red handed in a murder investigation, Bigby deeply resents the implication that they are _anything_ alike.

He backs the dickhead up against a wall and keeps the face that suggests he’s just moments away from breaking out his fists, urging the shithead to keep talking.

The mention of an employer is interesting, but the man shuts up after that, and doesn’t keep talking despite Bigby trying to continually increase the pressure.

“Dumb,” the guy calls out, sounding victorious, and Bigby suddenly worries that he’s walked into some kind of trap, or been led on some chase while maybe the real danger is still back at the apartment with Lawrence and Snow.

If _anything_ happens to Snow, and it’s his fault…

He gives the guy a bemused look, as if to say, do share, and thankfully enough, it works.

“No, _I’m_ Dee, _he’s_ Dum.”

There’s a sudden pain and a crack, and it all goes dark.

* * *

He hears Snow before he sees her again, calling him peaceful, and when he opens her eyes, there she is, crouching above him, looking slightly concerned, but there’s also a hint of a amusement.

“Peaceful, except you’re lying in a dirty alley. With an open wound on the back of your head.”

Wow, she’s really not pulling any punches. He would try and be sarcastic back, maybe give her an over the top winning smile, but frankly his head just _hurts_.

He decides to take the time to just lie there for a bit and rub his face, while once more in the span of 24 hours he tries to feel a bit more alive again.

Snow exits her crouch, once it seems she’s decided he’s going to be alright, and he takes that as a sign that his respite is over. He’s started pulling himself up even before she tells him that they ought to go. Impatience tinging her tone slightly, he wonders how much time he’s wasted in this alley.

Besides, she’s right. He really ought to go check in on Toad. At the very least so that he doesn’t think he’s been forgotten.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So Toad's apartment next chapter. I've finished all of "Faith" and should be moving onto Smoke and Mirrors shortly- which means Nerissa so yay.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Toad's apartment.   
> When writing this I'm going through the game again, and it really is quite funny how much you can get even when Bigby says nothing, obviously that's because the game has to progress but still.

He’s back at Toad’s apartment, and in the daylight the mess and carnage he had caused the night prior looks far, far, worse.

Jesus, poor Toad. Bigby had felt kind of bad earlier but holy hell had he and Woody really done a number on the place. He looks up guiltily at the hole in the wall, and down at the shattered glass surrounding Toad’s totalled car.

As they enter the building Bigby can hear the sounds of a child crying, and Toad’s voice presumably consoling him. Poor kid. Bigby is starting to feel really bad about not getting there sooner, because if it had led to TJ getting hurt…

But if he’d gone to Toad’s first chances are Lawrence would be dead.

Fucking Hell.

“Is that his son?” Snow asks, and Bigby nods in response. Turning to face him fully now, Snow adds on, “Be nice in there, ok?”

Bigby’s always nice. Okay, not true, but still.

He pushes lightly on the door which swings open with no resistance, and the first thing he notices is the smell of blood.

It’s fresh.

Something bad had _definitely_ happened here.

Toad’s all smiles and apologies though, which frankly just makes Bigby’s imaginary hackles rise up further, because Toad would _never_ just admit to wasting Bigby’s official time. He’d come up with _some_ kind of story, even if this whole thing had been a lie.

Someone was in Woody’s place, and now Toad’s been roughed up.

There is definitely a fucking conspiracy going on. Someone really doesn’t want them finding any answers.

Bigby folds his arms, and levels Toad with his best unimpressed stare in an attempt to convey to Toad just how little he’s buying this horseshit.

For all they love to compare him to a bloody dog, they seem to forget about the ways he actually _is_ like one. Bigby can smell the blood in this apartment, something happened here, and he’s not leaving until he gets some answers.

It’s clear Toad’s trying to hurry him out of the apartment, and also clear that something is up with TJ. It makes Bigby think that maybe there are answers to be found here that might be more linked to Faith than he’d initially thought.

While Snow goes off into TJ’s room to talk to the kid, Bigby starts prowling around the apartment in an attempt to work out what’s happened, while also trying to sweat Toad out a little.

Toad’s a nervous talker if Bigby ever did see one.

The first thing Bigby spies is a busted lamp, which is lying on the floor. It looks heavy and like someone could do some serious damage with it. When he pointedly kicks at it Toad goes off about kids playing games, but Bigby doubts a little squirt like TJ could drag this lamp from wherever it clearly belongs to up here.

And if Toad seriously keeps the lamp up here then Bigby has to despair because there’s nowhere to plug it in.

When Bigby points at the lock, and easily swings the door open and shut a few times Toad claims that it’s just rotted, like everything else in the building. Which, well, judging by the looks of things that _could_ be entirely true, maybe it was already busted. But that would still explain how whoever trashed Toad’s place got in.

He walks down the steps, and finally _sees_ the blood he’s been smelling ever since he stepped through the door. It’s pretty high up, and seems unlikely to have gotten there by accident, especially if it’s TJ’s. Kid’s too small.

Toad tries to blow it off as wood rot, and Bigby can actually not fucking believe this. Here he is, trying to help Toad, with all this evidence staring them both in the face, and Toad is still trying to bluster and lie his way through.

Someone broke in here and attacked them. This is Bigby’s fucking _job_ to stop shit like this happening, and maybe he’s failed there- but it’s also his job to make sure Fables don’t get away with hurting each other.

Does Toad really think he’s that fucking useless?

He folds his arms once more and stares pointedly at Toad, refusing to look away until he stops bullshitting him. It works quickly, Toad’s not a particularly hard nut to crack.

Toad’s going off about it being his hand, even though there’s not a dash of blood on it, or any kind of scar. Fable healing maybe, still seems kind of high up on the wall for someone of Toad’s height.

There’s a poker lying out, and more blood to be seen on it. It’s pretty sharp, and it would be easy to swing.

Toad’s finally trying to challenge Bigby on his disbelieving stares but it might be more convincing or give him more pause if Toad could be consistent in his lies.

Cut his hand, now his foot, and Bigby can smell blood on Toad but none of his limbs are injured.

Toad thinks he’s so smart with answers, and Bigby can see the relief on his face when the amphibian thinks he’s wriggled out of it. Bigby doesn’t believe shit, and he’s got a pretty good idea of what’s gone on here. It’s just hard to confront Toad with it.

On account of him not being able to verbally call Toad out and all. He can tell Toad really thinks he’s getting one over Bigby and he briefly wonders just how stupid Toad thinks he is.

“No crime in a little accident,” Toad says, sounding bitter. It’s the kind of thing Bigby’s heard before, people threatening him to stay out of their business. He wonders if Toad’s quoting here.

He checks out the window, even though he’s pretty sure he’s pieced it all together now. The marks in the dust and dirt of webbed hands leaps out at him, and he finds himself kind of disturbed. Somehow more so than by the blood and shattered lamp.

It looks like Toad had tried to get out.

Really, _really_ , tried.

Suddenly Bigby feels deeply awful all over again about not getting here sooner. He wants to apologise to Toad, to shake him, to get him to just _tell_ him what went on here. But he won’t, he can’t.

Toad’s _still_ trying to deny it all though, and Bigby doesn’t have the words to tell Toad that he knows what happened here, that he can see right through Toad’s lies, and that he’s sorry. He needs Toad to admit it himself.

They all think he’s a monster anyway, silent and feral. What the hell.

He leans forward, bending over, but still he has the height advantage on Toad, and snarls. His teeth are slightly bared, and he can see the fear growing on Toad’s face as he backs up, but still he refuses to crack.

_Fuck_.

What is Bigby even doing? Here he is, trying to physically threaten and intimidate a guy who’s just been worked over and probably threatened into silence by doing the exact same thing. Some kind of fucking protector he is.

Ashamed, he backs up and tries to work out what to do next. Just at that moment Snow and TJ walk back through the door, and Toad goes to hug his son.

That’s when Bigby sees it, the blood he’s been smelling on Toad.

It’s dripping down his neck from underneath his hat and staining the collar of his coat. Jesus Christ. Makes sense though, head wounds bleed like a stuck pig.

“Mr Toad, you’re bleeding!” Snow says worriedly, staring at the trail down his neck. Finally Toad seems to sense the game is up, and sighs, sitting down on a upturned crate.

“It was that butcher,” he confesses, “a Tweedle, Dum or Dee, who knows, got to strip them down to their johnnies before you can tell which is which. He came bargin’ in, screaming about something the Woodsman had, or thought he had, whatever. Tore up the place, beat me up when I said I didn’t have it.”

Toad stops for a second, anger taking over his expression and his tone darkens, “And if you had come when I asked you too, maybe he wouldn’t have had the never to strongarm me boy.”

Shit, fuck. Look at him, fucking failure. He casts an urgent eye over Toad Junior, but while he clearly looks shaken up he doesn’t seem too badly hurt.

“What the hell does he care?” Toad asks bitterly, with another dark look in Bigby’s direction, when Snow expresses her concern over his son. “It’s always the same with you Bigby? If I’m in trouble, need help, if I call about something you always take the live long day to get here. What if he’d done somethin’ worse eh?”

Bigby knows Toad’s just lashing out, he’s stressed, and hurt, and worried, and probably feels guilty about TJ, but it still makes Bigby angry.

He fucking cares alright? He’s not a fucking monster, he cares that TJ got hurt, hell he cares that _Toad_ got hurt, but breaking down in tears and all isn’t going to help anyone. It’s not like Bigby can offer any consoling words, or excuses, or explain that he was busy across town saving another fable’s _life_.

It doesn’t really matter though, because he doubts Toad would really want to hear it anyway. Toad clearly feels he’s always second best, and maybe, maybe not. Bigby’s based in the Woodlands, and it takes him as long as it takes him to get a cab over, whether he’s called out in the dead of night or during the day, Bigby comes. Bigby comes when he’s still in last night’s clothes and reeking of cigarette smoke and blood, and when he’s been sitting in his chair all morning trying to work up the motivation to get up and go to his shitty office down the hall, or even brush his teeth.

He certainly doesn’t do this job for the thanks, but it’s still grating to get nothing but vitriol.

He doesn’t think any of them trivial. But there’s only one of him, and there’s a _lot_ of them and he has to prioritise. Though the rising number of fables he doesn’t even seem to know about certainly has him wondering how good at his job he really is.

The fucking Tweedle threatened to kill TJ if Toad talked. Suddenly Bigby has much more sympathy for Toad’s silence and belligerence, and a lot of rage at the twin shitbags.

Conspiracy! That part of his brain crows, smug in its assumption. Fine, he thinks, yeah, there is definitely some kind of cover up at play here. He hates that it’s taken a _murder_ to get how rotted this community really is to his attention.

Toad defends his, “stealing,” or “repossession”, and to be honest Bigby doesn’t have it in him to give him any kind of warning or reprimand about this right now. Poor guy’s been through enough, besides, if it weren’t for Toad’s unfortunate habit chances are this coat would be in the Tweedle’s hands right now, or someone else’s and they wouldn’t be able to get any more clues.

It’s made of a donkey’s skin, and there is no doubt that it belongs to Faith. It must be the one mentioned in her story. More interestingly, however, is the note attached addressed to Lawrence.

“What should we do with it?” Snow asks him once she sees it, letting him take the lead.

He doesn’t want to open it, Lawrence is alive, and almost certainly not a suspect. Being half dead is a pretty good alibi. They should save it for Lawrence to read. Besides, there are prying eyes and ears here.

He’s trying to work out how to convey this exactly, as he stand stock still in the middle of the room. He ignores Toad’s blabbering, but when Snow gives him a gentle reprimand he shakes his head and puts the letter in his pocket.

He’ll give it to Lawrence when he sees him next, he needs to talk to Swineheart at some point anyway.

It’s clear Toad wants them out now, and Bigby doesn’t blame him one little bit. He and Snow make a hasty exit, and once back on the street Bigby lights up a cigarette.

Snow’s not impressed with him, and Bigby doesn’t know _why_. He shrugs, he didn’t do anything he wouldn’t do again. It’s not like he went round threatening a Toad.

Snow evidently decides to let it be, and takes whatever she wants from Bigby’s shrug.

“So, split a cab?” she asks, Bigby’s glad she offered, because a. he’s kind of broke, but more importantly he likes spending time with Snow, and is generally keen to soak up all that he can get.

“Sure,” he says, scratching his face, words coming easier now it’s finally just him and Snow, and they’re out of Toad’s place, out of Lawrence’s blood stained apartment. “Gotta go Trip Trap,” he adds.

He’d like to talk to the Woodsman, because he might know _something_ , and the Tweedles had to be interested in him for a reason. Toad had finally given him a solid lead on finding the man and he’d like to follow it up.

“Not because of what Toad said?” Snow asks sceptically. Bigby makes a eh, kind of face in response and gives a shrug.

“Lead,” he says, as calmly as he can. It’s clear Snow’s doubtful about this idea, and it’s making his throat close up again, terrified of saying the wrong words, scared he’s said the wrong ones already.

 **This is why you need to keep your fucking mouth shut** , his brain tells him. Fuck off, he wants to think, but doesn’t.

“It’s our _only_ lead, I guess,” Snow replies, sounding more certain.

Yeah, unfortunately, and put like that it really doesn’t sound good. He nods regretfully and turns on his heel to go hail a cab.


	7. Chapter 7

“Where to?” the cab driver asks once they’re both seated. Bigby tilts his head a little in Snow’s direction but keeps his gaze fixed on the view outside the window. He’s got all kinds of tricks for getting cab drivers to take him where he needs to go, largely revolving around just giving them notes, but he prefers to get Snow to give his destination when it’s the two of them.

He doesn’t ride in cabs with people unless Snow’s there. That way he doesn’t have to suffer the awkwardness of them trying to work out why he can’t do something as simple as give the bloody cabby directions.

The cab starts moving, and the two of them sit in silence for quite a while before Snow finally starts speaking. It’s a nice silence, an easy silence and Bigby basks in the familiar presence of Snow’s company.

Out of the corner of his eye Bigby sees Snow start to open her mouth and he turns his head to look at her.

“Every time I think I’m getting a handle on what’s going on things just get more complicated,” she tells him, shaking her head, “It feels like we’re always a step behind.”

Tell him about it, he nods tiredly in agreement. It feels like behind every door they open there are three more, each leading off to their own set of rooms and doors. Hopefully talking to Woody can shed some light on _some_ of this though.

“Bigby?” Snow speaks up again, in a voice that sounds kind of raw and vulnerable, and nothing like the usual confident and polished professional tone she is usually careful to adopt. Bigby would say it makes him pay extra attention but that wouldn’t be true- Bigby _always_ pays the utmost attention to whatever Snow says. Holding a conversation with him is a lot of work he would imagine, and it’s the least he can do to pay attention back.

“Be honest with me. Who do you think… did this?”

And isn’t that the question of the hour. He wishes he knew, he wishes he had _any_ kind of idea. He wants to talk to Woody, and he _really_ wants to talk to the pimp. The Tweedles are _clearly_ mixed up in this somehow, whether they did it or they’re just involved.

He’s got nothing to pin it to any of them, and there are definitely players involved they haven’t even begun to uncover.

He stares out the window, rubbing his jaw with his knuckles, trying to think it over, but he can’t come up with anything.

“I just feel like we’re always a step _behind_.” Snow adds, sounding defeated. Well that makes two of them.

Bigby feels like he’s running full speed and just barely able to keep up.

“It’s an uncomfortable feeling,” Snow adds when Bigby himself doesn’t move to make any kind of contribution. That’s something else they can agree on, and he wiggles his eyebrows a little in reluctant agreement.

“I can’t tell if you don’t know, or just won’t say.” Snow says, sounding unsure of herself, before sighing once more and looking away.

He doesn’t know, and it’s too much effort to try and fill her in on his suspicions. Sometimes ~~(a lot of times)~~ he’d like to be able to just _share_ his thoughts with Snow, with someone. Talk things through.

Too much effort. Besides, he’s just used to keeping things to himself now, safe and secure inside his head, away from keen ears and loose tongues.

The sky outside has darkened, the sun’s disappeared and the looming buildings on either side of them are casting shadow’s on Snow’s face. He imagines it’s much the same with him.

“You look tired,” Snow comments, and once more she’s not using her business, polished professional voice. It’s the one she uses when it’s just the two of them sometimes. When he can feel like maybe they’re not just colleagues, but also friends.

He feels it, feels exhausted deep in his bones. He’s practically running on empty- he’d barely closed his eyes and nodded off before Snow had come knocking on his door, and he hadn’t got much sleep before that either.

It’s not just a lack of sleep though, he just feels tired. Tired of trying to clean out shit and finding even more that he’d never even thought had existed.

He shrugs once more, avoiding her eyes. Yeah, he’s tired, so fucking tired. But what can they do? There’s a job, and it’s got to be done. He doubts he’d be able to sleep right now anyway. Not when he still can’t shake the idea that he’s in some way to blame.

Snow starts talking about how she feels like she’s failed the fables, how they spend all their time on the residents of the Woodlands.

Snow’s right about the Woodlands, and it’s something Bigby’s felt for a while. But he’s not blameless, he’d not tried to do anything about it. Not tried to seek out the other fables. He’d had to quite literally stumble across Faith to really open his eyes, and had he not met her that night would he even care about her death? Her _murder_.

Yes, his brain tries to tell him. Yeah, he probably would have cared, in that absent way. But to be honest he’s not even sure he would have investigated it, not properly. Not if he thought she was just a particularly unlucky mundy…

He keeps his eyes on Snow, and tries to show her how intently he’s listening with his eyes. Try to convey to her that they’re both _trying_ , and maybe they should have done better.

That can change. Do better _now_. Snow’s not even like him, not really- this isn’t her job, it’s Cranes. The blame for Bigby’s mistakes lands solely at his feet.

He’d like to comfort her, reassure her. But he doesn’t think that’s what she wants now. She wants him to listen, but he doubts there’s anything she wants him to say. Bigby’s good at though, listening- listening without replying. He imagines it feels good to get it all out.

“Now things are worse off than they’ve ever been,” Snow says, and she still sounds so defeated. Bigby gives that a doubtful face, because things look bad, yeah that’s true. Things probably _are_ bad- but they’d had to leave their home for a reason, and they’ve been here for a long long time.

Snow clearly sees the expression, because she drily responds:

“Right, we’ve had it worse, but not by much.” She shakes her head, looks forward away from him once more.

“Maybe this isn’t for me. I thought public service was so… _pure_. A way to _help_.”

Bigby looks away himself at that. Because that’s what he’d wanted when he’d taken this job, to try to fucking help some people. And now look, Toad’s words from earlier about him just making everything worse echo back. Maybe he does just make things worse.

Faith hadn’t seemed to think so though.

 **And look where that got her.** His brain shoots out nastily. **She’s dead, and you’ve got no leads**.

Public service isn’t pure though. Bigby had known that from the beginning, known that when they’d offered _him_ the job of Sheriff because he was brutal and able to be vicious, and they thought he’d be easily controlled. Saw it again when Crane weasled his way forward, and when the fables queuing up outside the business office in the early hours of the morning stared at him like he was worse than the scum on their shoes.

They both sit there, staring ahead in silence, presumably lost in their own thoughts, but before long the cab is pulling to a stop outside the Trip Trap bar.

It’s much darker now, and the place looks seedy in the dying light.

“Yeah, maybe you should handle this one,” Snow tells him, the vulnerability from earlier peeled from her tone, and her surety and confidence back in her words.

It’s probably for the best. Bigby has no desire to get violent, _he’s not a hammer_ , but Woody might. Bigby just seems to trigger something in Woody that makes him spew hatred and throw punches.

He steps out of the cab slowly, and takes his time slamming the door shut, both trying to prolong his time with Snow and also his confrontation with the Woodsman.

“Bigby,” Snow calls urgently, just as he’s steeling himself to take the plunge down the steps into the bar.

He turns around and walks back, bending over to be eye level.

“I, um… just… be careful? Please.” Snow asks him, looking rather tired herself.

There’s nothing Bigby can say to that. He’d like to be, it would be so easy to just nod. But that wouldn’t be true, because Bigby is entering this knowing that chances are fists will be thrown. He doesn’t want to lie to her, he never wants to lie to Snow, but especially not now when it feels like she’s trying to be so honest with him.

He shrugs, and some of his tired resignation probably shows on his face, because Snow looks kind of sad for a moment.

“At least,” a pause, “ _try?_ ” she beseeches him. He doesn’t shrug this time, doesn’t nod either. He won’t make any promises he can’t keep.

Careful is not an option for Bigby, not when he’s about to walk into the Lions den and will have to rely entirely on their good will. When he can’t speak a word to explain himself, when he’s just so _tired_ and a girl is dead.

If Bigby were being careful he wouldn’t be going in there at all, but he has to. So he won’t lie.

He takes a step back from the cab and straightens up, watches the cab drive off.

Bigby looks at the door and steels himself once more before finally venturing down the steps into whatever lies beneath.


	8. Chapter 8

Bigby stands in the doorway of the bar and adjusts his tie. The bar is almost entirely empty, there’s just Holly the bartender, and Gren- slumped over at the bar.

The Trip-Trap is warm, well lit and there’s music playing. It should seem far more welcoming than the outside on the street, but it’s not. He knows he’s not wanted here and he can feel this is not going to be easy already.

“What do ya want, Sheriff?” Holly asks as soon as she notices him having entered her bar. She already sounds fed up and pissed off. Bigby doesn’t even attempt to give her any kind of answer, still looking around the bar for any sign of the Woodsman.

“Oh, well I guess I’m not worthy of a response.” Holly says sarcastically, folding her arms against her chest.

There’s no sign of Woody, so Bigby just shrugs apologetically and walks up to where Holly is behind the bar. There’s a picture of Woody pinned up on the wall behind her and Bigby pointedly jerks his chin at it before leaning forward to rest his arms on the countertop.

Holly’s not like Toad, she’s not going to talk just because he stands there, just because of who he is. He can already feel that this whole thing is going to be like pulling teeth.

“He hasn’t been here for a few weeks,” she tells him flatly, clearly wishing him gone. Out of the corner of his eye he can see Gren shake his head slightly and all of a sudden Holly gets flustered, her eyes widening slightly.

“No… maybe, I don’t know, but yeah he hasn’t been here in a while if he’s been here at all… which… I, I don’t know.” Holly amends sounding very unsure in comparison to her earlier statement.

He turns slightly to look at Gren, and then back at Holly tilting his head imperceptibly in the other man’s direction.

Holly doesn’t take the bait, and she’s back to her no-nonsense self, calm and collected once more and practically screaming at Bigby to fuck off with her eyes.

“Glad you came in for that,” she says deadpan, looking entirely unimpressed.

Time for a new tactic. Holly won’t crack at all, and Gren’s not going to crack under pressure, but Bigby might be able to annoy the man into saying something he shouldn’t.

He goes to sit on the vacant barstool next to Gren and can practically _sense_ the other man begin to bristle.

“Lotta stools in this place,” Gren growls out, eyes securely fixed on his drink. It’s probably meant to be a threat. That’s too bad, Bigby had known what he’d signed up for as soon as he’d walked into this place.

But there’s only _one_ next to you handsome, Bigby thinks sardonically, and settles for giving Gren his biggest over the top dopey smile. There’s nothing behind the eyes of it, and it probably looks entirely disingenuous but Bigby couldn’t give less of one.

He’s fed up, and he just wants answers, and he wants to get them as peacefully and quickly as he can.

Holly’s moved over from the other side of the bar to join them, maybe to supervise them, and she still seems completely unimpressed.

“You gonna order something? Or are you just here to bother my customers?” Bigby pointedly looks around the otherwise empty bar. “You know what I mean,” she grits out, then her face takes on a gleeful mocking expression.

“Want a lime?” she asks, and when Bigby just stares flatly back at her she continues, “Cause I think they got some at the bar down the street.”

Well that was an obvious cue for Bigby to leave if he ever did hear one. Too bad, he’s staying until Woody shows up, or they give him some information. If the man’s a regular as Toad, and the picture hanging up in the bar lead him to believe then he’ll probably show up at some point.

To his right Gren starts chuckling darkly, and when Bigby shoots him a dark glare as if to say _oh you find this fucking funny do you?_ Gren laughs a little more before responding.

“Yup, think it’s fuckin’ hilarious.” Gren takes a swig of his drink, finishing it off, before banging it down on the surface of the bar.

Before things can escalate or move any further a flushing sound catches all of their attention, and next thing they know Woody’s emerging from the toilet whistling slightly.

There’s a moment of panic in Woody’s expression, which morphs to anger before his entire face just slumps and he takes a seat at the counter as well.

This is… new. Woody _always_ wants to get into it, and honestly Bigby feels slightly wrong footed. He furrows his brow and examines the Woodsman, trying to work out his game, but he can’t come up with anything.

“You and me’ve have been going at it for hundreds of years… I’m through fightin’.” Woody tells him, and he honestly sounds as tired about the whole thing as Bigby fucking feels. He feels the side of his mouth quirk up slightly in a grin.

Never look a gift horse in the mouth he guesses. Standing, he goes to move over to the stool next to Woody, but he’s stopped in his tracks by Gren lazily, but firmly, pushing back on his shoulder.

Bigby feels his entire body clench up at the contact and is torn between his body desperately wanting to step back, but also not wanting to give Gren a single inch, to hold his ground.

Gren smiles nastily at him, and Bigby can see the other man is just _itching_ for Bigby to make something of it, for a fight, to “put Bigby in his place.” Gren, Bigby is aware, sees him as nothing but an attack dog at best, and a lapdog at worst. Violent, but leashed, and fucking stupid.

Bigby doesn’t get why the fables are so willing to pick fights with him. Especially when _that’s_ how they see him. Then again, folklore is full of tough and nasty people, it’s not like he was particularly special.

But Woody tiredly tells Gren to let him through and he does, dropping his hand away and turning back to his empty drink.

His shoulder feels itchy and blistered from where Gren’s hand was resting, even though he knows it’s just in his head, and he has to resist the urge to rub at it, to scratch at it.

“Ahh, well. Everyone knows you, the Big Bad Wolf. Now I’m the bad guy and you’re the Sheriff. What kind of fucking world is that?” Woody lets out a mirthless laugh and goes to take another swig from his drink.

Bigby internally bristles at the comment though- what kind of a world is that?

The kind of world where Woody gets drunk and starts beating on young women, and Bigby has to hightail it over there as fast as he can to stop him, Bigby thinks. The kind where they all get to wallow in their misery whereas he’s too busy shovelling everyone else’s shit to even stop to take a look at his own.

That’s what kind of world it is.

Then Woody’s talking about money, and casing the girl’s place and Bigby can’t keep up. It doesn’t _sound_ like he’s talking about Faith, and Bigby’s desperately trying to piece together what the hell Woody’s on about.

The fuck does a robber have to do with anything?

He’s disturbed from his thoughts by a loud bang and glances over to see Gren slamming his empty glass down on the counter once more. Steadily the man gets to his feet and starts walking over to where Woody and Bigby are sitting.

Woody’s quick to his feet too, and frantically trying to tell Gren to cool his jets, but to no avail.

Gren groans. “Shut the fuck up, Woody. Shit ain’t just about you,” he snarls, “It’s about this fuckin’ _lapdog_. Only comes sniffing around this part of town when the rich fucks up at the Woodlands need a shakedown.” He pokes Bigby in the back and he forces himself not to stiffen up. He _cannot_ show weakness, Gren will tear him to shreds for it, and if there is any way of this not ending in a fight then Bigby would like to take it.

“Ain’t that right, Bigby.” Gren finishes up. It’s right enough that it makes Bigby uncomfortable. He’d love to be able to flat out deny it, but if Faith’s head had been left on _Lawrence’s_ doorstep would Bigby even be here?

He shakes his head slightly, but barely. Fables have been slipping through the cracks, and it’s clear Bigby’s been failing at his job. He’d love to be able to justify it as no one _asking_ for his help- but then he’s got to justify why that is, and the answer’s simple.

 **You’re a failure.** Yeah, maybe. The words roll over him, he’s aware.

Gren’s clearly not happy at the lack of response though, and keeps talking.

“Holly’s sister goes missing and no one gives two shits about her. Paperwork, waiting rooms, and that _bitch_ Snow White looking right past me, then ushering me out the fuckin’ door.”

As soon as the word “bitch” exits Gren’s mouth Bigby finds himself up and moving into Gren’s space without even thinking about it.

As he’d said before, there’s nothing wrong with the word bitch, his mother had been one in the most literal sense, and he is _tired_ , and fucking sicky and _angry_ as some kind of insult, some kind of way to _demean_.

When Gren uses that word it’s not just a smear on Snow’s honour and character, it’s on that of his mother’s too, hell it’s on _Bigby’s_.

He moves closer to Gren, staring him down, fucking _daring_ him to continue. He can feel his fists clenching, but he refuses to turn this into violence.

Oh, he has _no_ illusions about where this is headed, but Bigby will not throw the first punch.

~~Bigby is not a hammer.~~

Instead he snarls at Gren, keeping his weight balanced and even, a low growl in his throat.

“I can growl too,” Gren says darkly, with not a hint, but a _promise_ of violence in his voice.

Next thing he’s looking at Gren and there’s a flickering green light which accompanies Gren breaking his glamour and transforming into his true form.

He’s large, and a milky white with mottled red spots and rows of sharp fangs. He can hear the crack of Gren’s bones, and then he’s crashing towards him, reversing the tables. Now it’s Gren encroaching upon Bigby’s space.

“Should’ve walked out of here when you had the chance,” Gren tells him mockingly. He side eyes Holly, who just rolls her eyes and is replaced by a green flicker herself.

“Don’t worry about me,” Holly says, sounding mildly amused, having dropped her glamour to reveal a troll. And fuck. There goes any help of interference, help, or intervention from Holly’s side of things. This is looking increasingly worse and worse.

He could wolf out _himself,_ but Bigby’s job _isn’t_ to hurt the fables, it’s just to stop them from hurting _each other_. Bigby can take a bit of a beating, it’s preferable to what could happen to Gren if Bigby lets slip his control.

Bigby could fully transform every time he was sent to deal with a scuffle, and bring the fable back to Swineheart broken and bleeding between his teeth and under his claws. They don’t seem to _get_ just how deadly Bigby is. Bigby doesn’t like to think about it himself though, to be fair.

But he doesn’t transform, he tries his best to not _ever_ transform that much, because his job is to protect. That’s what _he’d_ signed on for, even if sometimes he feels more like a bruiser or a bouncer. He’d much prefer if every problem could be solved with his normal, _human_ , flat teeth, and nice blunt nails- not claws.

Then Gren’s advancing on him, knocking him back with a glancing blow that nearly sends him faceplanting into the bar. He’s foiled in his attempt to Glass Gren by Holly slamming his hand down onto the bar, and then next thing he knows he’s being grabbed and slammed around by Gren like a rag doll.

Bang his back smashes through the rotator fan on the ceiling, and then into the rafters themselves. He’s able to get a moment of respite by grabbing what’s left of the fan and hitting Gren with it as hard as he can, but it barely seems to phase his fable form.

With another loud crash, Bigby is thrown backwards into the wall of the bar, landing upside down on his head. For a brief moment everything goes fuzzy, and there’s a faint ringing in his ears which doesn’t die down even after his vision clears up.

He recovers not a moment too soon, because all of a sudden Gren’s throwing the pool table at him, and it’s all that Bigby can do to jump on top of it to avoid becoming a pancake. His hits just seem to irritate Gren more than they hurt him, and while Bigby’s being tossed around Gren seems hardly bothered at all.

More objects are thrown his way, and doding them, Bigby is able to grab a candlestick and gouge it right in between Gren’s eyes. For a brief wonderous moment Gren staggers back in pain, and Bigby tries to collect himself, and shake out the ringing from his ears.

Before long however, Gren has pulled the candle stick out from his face, and reaches down to grab Bigby by the ankle before flinging him on the ground. Bigby can feel his nose break, and blood splashes up to land in his eye from the force of the impact. In quick succession he is swung around, hitting the ceiling, the floor again, before the back of his head smashes into a photo frame and everything goes black.

* * *

He’s not out for long- perks of being a fable and all- but when he comes back to everything has tinged yellow slightly, and he can feel slivers of _something_ under his claws. It takes a moment to realise he is being dragged, and it’s at that moment that he begins to dig his claws into the ground in earnest.

Finally having gained purchase, his slide along the floor comes to a stop, and he feels a sharp yank on his leg as Gren continues trying to drag him.

He didn’t want it to come to this, he really didn’t.

Gren picks him up and throws him at the wall once more, but Bigby’s tougher like this, can take more of a hit, and it’s easier to collect himself. As he straightens up he sees the Woodsman’s horrified face, and when it’s like this it’s easy to understand why they all hate him.

Or fear him as Colin believes.

He growls and braces himself, ready for Gren’s attack. When the other fable comes’ swinging at him Bigby is ready, digging his claws into the painful looking scar on Gren’s shoulder and vaults over his back, leaving Gren slumped on the floor.

Before Gren can finish picking himself up Bigby moves in for several swift kicks to his kidneys, his back, and his stomach. Gren tries charging him again, but Bigby goes for the old injury and Gren goes staggering back in pain.

As Gren tries to collect himself Bigby leaps upon his back and claws at Gren’s throat and eyes, before going for the shoulder once more. From there it’s simple to stab him with a pool cue and kick him behind the knees to make sure that he stays down. He winds up for another kick when a sudden voice shocks him out of it.

“He’s had enough!” Woody calls desperately, but firmly.

Bigby turns, and the animalistic part of him, that’s more wolf than man- that’s more _mundy_ wolf than the Big Bad Wolf had been- snarls in warning.

But Woody’s intervention has served to bring Bigby back into the moment, and suddenly he sees Gren, whimpering in front of him. Gren who may be a massive fucking dick, but is just _angry_ because he’s yet another fable that Bigby’s failed to serve, and here he is, beating the crap out of him.

This is not who- what- Bigby wanted to be.

He stands over Gren for a little longer, just to make his point clear, to get his message across to the other fable before finally stepping away and backing down.

He walks over to the bar and slams a hand down on the countertop in signal for a drink. He wants- _needs_ \- to go back to being human now. Not this quasi-werewolf state. He can’t wait for it to die down, to go away, and it’s too strong for him to just think his way out of it.

He needs a drink.

Holly places a shot glass down on the bar, and he wipes it away, not caring about the smash it makes as it lands. He holds up two fingers and waits as Holly brings out another glass, this time a double, and pours as much whiskey as the bottle holds into it.

He gulps it down, shuts his eyes and can feel his claws retract and his teeth flatten out. When he opens his eyes again everything is back to its normal colour.

“Is this the type of treatment I can expect if I let you take me in?” Woody asks roughly, but there is an undercurrent of horror to his voice.

Bigby feels tired all over suddenly, because he _hadn’t_ wanted this. All he’d wanted was to talk to Woody, and with any luck go quietly with him back to his office.

He’s not in the habit of beating the crap out of people funnily enough. Unwillingly his eyes seek out the bandage on the back of Woody’s head.

He’s _not_.

But now is no time to show weakness, so instead he just stares Woody down, and lets the implicit threat of what Bigby will do if Woody _doesn’t_ come hang over the other man’s head.

Woody seems to get it, because he hangs his head slightly and makes as if to leave.

Just at that moment however, the door creaks open, and this is the last fucking thing Bigby needs as Gren lies moaning on the floor, both him and Holly out of glamour, and the entire bar trashed.

If it’s a Mundy they’re royally fucked, and if it’s not then Bigby still really doesn’t need this right now.

All their heads turn to see the newcomer, who’s too preoccupied with fishing something from his pocket to take any of them in.

Bigby recognises him, the intruder from Lawrence’s apartment who’d left him in a fucking alley with a bleeding head wound. The man who’d showed up asking questions in the most suspicious of circumstances, and whose brother had strong armed a _fucking_ kid.

Tweedle, fucking, Dee.

“Alright,” Dee calls out, “I got a hundred bucks for the first bloke that can tell me something about a girl named-“ Dee finally looks up, and seems to take in the scene around him before his eyes finally land on Bigby.

“Fuck.”

The unprofessional part of him thinks “a girl named Fuck” and laughs, the rest of him sees how Dee is turning to run and sets to throw himself at him. Then out of the corner of his eye he sees Woody taking advantage of the commotion to make his bid for freedom also.

There’s no choice though really, it would be nice to talk to Woody about this, but frankly Dee showing up here, and now, asking about Faith is just making Bigby really think that the Tweedle is the one he needs to talk to. Woody seems more like a red herring, maybe even a patsy.

It’s no difficulty to slam Tweedle Dee up against the wall before he can make his mistake, handcuffing him and leading him outside.

Getting him back to the Woodlands though? That’s going to be interesting.

“He’s the one you want! Not me!” Tweedle Dee shouts angrily. Correction, Bigby thinks, Woody was the one he’d wanted until Tweedle Dee had waltzed in here following the case like a bad smell. Woody could wait, unlike the Tweedle he’d be relatively easy to find should Bigby need him.

* * *

They’re just around the corner from the Woodlands though when his attention is caught by flickering lights.

Sirens- police cars, _Mundy_ police cars- and a lot of them.

A bad feeling fills his gut.

He needs to check this out.

He handcuffs Dee to a lamppost instead to make sure he doesn’t run off, and then walks up to where he can see a police cordon around the entrance of the Woodlands, Beast being told to stand behind the tape.

No, _no_. Did they not clean up properly earlier- that has to be it. There can’t be another one- another head- another dead girl.

He strides purposefully towards the cordon, and when the officers’ backs are turned he ducks under and up towards the doorsteps.

This close he can smell it, and his brain his fighting his nose, insisting it’s wrong- it’s never wrong.

The scent of blood and Snow’s perfume fills his nostrils and he thinks he might be sick. He’s aware of footsteps and noise behind him, but he can’t focus on it- it’s like static, white noise.

He has to check, has to see, his nose has to be wrong, his eyes can confirm that.

He reaches the steps and feels his brain shut down. He just about computes the sight of Snow’s face, and a lot of red, and then he’s not really thinking anything at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and that's the end of episode one (finally) hope you enjoy reading it, and let me know if you saw any mistakes


	9. Smoke & Mirrors

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> starting episode 2 of TWAU now, dialogue taken from the game.

Hair as black as ebony, skin as white as snow, lips as red as blood. It’s from Snow’s tale, her _mundy_ tale, and she’d hate it. Hate that he’s thinking it. Looking down it’s all that he can see.

Hair as black as ebony, skin as white as snow, lips as red as _blood_. Hair as black as ebony, skin as white as snow, lips as red as blood.

_Hair as black as ebony, skin as white as snow, lips as red as blood_.

There’s a pressure on his shoulder and he jerks up, flails, drives his elbow hard into something soft.

He squeezes his eyes shut but the view is burned into his retinas. Hair as black as ebony, skin as white as snow, lips as red as blood.

He wants to scream, to shout, to cry. Someone keeps shouting “sir” at him and he needs to respond but he can’t think about anything but Snow’s head (as white as) lying there surrounded by a pool of blood (lips as red as blood.)

There are too many things- and they can’t be real- they _can’t_ be, and he can’t think, can’t respond.

“Hair as black as ebony, skin as white as snow, lips as red as blood. Hair as black as ebony, skin as white as snow, lips as red as blood.” It runs through his head like a mantra, and it takes a hearing a confused “what”, breaking through it all for Bigby to realise his mouth his moving with the words.

“Hair as black as ebony, skin as white as snow, lips as red as blood,” he says over and over again, desperately, unable now to bring himself to stop.

Shut up, shut up, he thinks, but he finds his mouth his still moving, spitting out the words. It’s hard to focus on anything and he doesn’t know what he’s doing. There are people talking to him, but their voices are drowned out by the incessant chanting in his head, and he can feel himself starting to talk louder, and louder.

Then he’s face down on the steps, his hands being forced behind his back, and his lips still moving.

* * *

He comes back to himself a while later, sitting at table alone in a room. It still doesn’t feel real, but he can’t get the image of Snow’s decapitated head out of his mind. She can’t be dead. She _can’t_.

Is this an attack on _him_? He begins to wonder. First Faith, now Snow- is someone _following him_? He feels sick. Then he feels guilty and angry because here he is making their deaths- _Snow’s_ death- about him.

His hands, resting on the table in front of him, are still cuffed together, and he absently wonders how easily he could break out. It’s not worth the attention though. He needs this over with as quickly and simply as possible so he can get back to work. Back to work and solve this as quickly as possible, sit the fucking Tweedle down alone in a room and get him to talk.

He sighs, wonders how long it will be until someone comes in to talk to him, wonders how much time he’s wasted. He’s itching for a smoke, and he needs a shave.

He doesn’t think about Snow right now, because he _can’t_. To help her he needs to focus, and when he thinks about her all he sees is her bloody decapitated head lying abandoned and- he cuts himself off there. A smoke, that’s what he wants.

He’s so tired. He cushions his head on his arms and waits for the detective to come in, he hopes it soon. He really hopes it’s soon.

It’s about twenty minutes by Bigby’s estimate until someone finally walk through the door and takes a seat at the table. The detective- because that’s who Bigby is assuming she is- is a fairly young woman with red hair, and a closed off look on her face wearing a green jacket. She places the file she’s holding down onto the desk in front of her, and slides a photo across to face him, staring him down challengingly.

Unwillingly he feels his eyes drift down to the table top and the photo that lies there. It’s from the Woodlands, the crime scene. Snow’s lifeless eyes stare back up at him, lying in a large puddle of her own dark blood.

His chest clenches, and everything in his peripheral vision begins to grey out, tunnel vision. I’m sorry, I’m _so_ sorry, he thinks. He tries to look away, but his eyes always snap back as if dragged by a magnetic force.

He’s not sure how much longer he loses, staring at the gruesome photo. The detective asks him questions, but he doesn’t really hear them still staring down at Snow- besides, he can’t answer them anyway. He’s snapped out of it eventually by a frustrated “Mr Wolf!” from the detective, and when he glances up he sees her slide the photo away before placing it under the rest of her files.

“You’re making this more difficult than it has to be,” she tells him firmly, but her expression has changed from when she entered the room. It’s softer, kinder.

Oh. _Oh_ , she thought he’d done it when she’d first walked in. This wasn’t just a “friendly chat” he’s handcuffed and be locked in a room for who knows how long.

 **And why wouldn’t she?** That little voice hisses, **you’re a fucking monster and everyone sees that when they look at you. It’s basically your fault anyway.**

Maybe she still thinks he did it, maybe she thinks he’s involved, but she seems far more sympathetic now than she did earlier. In fact the detective sighs, and leans over to unlock and remove his handcuffs before sitting back down in her seat.

Bigby takes this opportunity to reach for his smokes which are lying on the table in front of him and light one up with shaking hands. The familiar motion is calming, he settles back for the interview. It’s not going to go well, he can tell. But the glowing red light of a camera and the eyes that are undoubtedly watching him from behind the mirror mean that busting out would be a very, very, bad idea.

“If you’d just cooperate and answer the questions, you can go home,” the detective tells him before shaking her head and adding more sympathetically, “maybe get some sleep.” Sleep, god he needs it. But he doesn’t have _time_ for sleep right now. Besides, he’s going to be seen as surly and uncooperative, and chances are she’ll just leave him here for longer, maybe he can catch some shut eye then.

“How are you feeling?” she asks, seemingly changing track, “I know it’s been a long night for you- you look like you could use some rest.”

God knows Bigby could do with some rest, he can feel his eyes drying up and his head is starting to pound a little- but he _can’t_. He can’t rest now, even if he wanted to. His head is racing and he wouldn’t be able to shut it all off to try and sleep, he’d just sit there, awake, wasting time.

There’s no point in sleeping.

He can’t say anything to the detective, and he’s not really sure what she wants to hear. Besides, the camera blinking ominously behind her is putting Bigby on edge. He takes another drag of his cigarette, maintaining eye contact and waiting for her to get to the point.

Brannigan doesn’t look the slightest bit impressed, nodding, “Nice,” she says sarcastically. This is not great, because Bigby can tell he’s already on shaky ground, he already looks suspicious as fuck, and now he’s being “uncooperative” but what the fuck is he meant to do?

His thoughts are running together, and he can’t really focus on anything, and she’s asking questions that he doesn’t have answers for. She’s looking in the wrong place anyway- she’s a mundy cop, and this is a fable crime. They really can’t have Mundy’s sniffing around their community.

_Snow’s dead_ , and here he is, wasting time, because he can’t just _explain_ that this cop is wrong, and the ever watching eye of the camera means he can’t just take off.

“Look,” a sigh, trying to play on his sympathies, “I know what you must be going through. Really, I do. But I could use your cooperation.” There it is, the accusation that he’s holding everything up, when really it’s _her_ , and that she’s not letting him off to go _fix_ this.

Bigby thinks he might even want to cry a little, but his eyes are too dry, and he can’t summon up the energy, and besides. He doesn’t want to show weakness in front of this woman, who won’t let him _do_ his fucking job.

So he just keeps smoking, but starts to look absently away, trying to run over what he knows about the case in his mind. Dum hadn’t done it, but there was always Dee, and maybe they were just muscle anyway, and he _should_ talk to Woody at some point, but Woody had nothing against Snow, and he still needs to check out the pimp and he should probably deal with Grendel, and and and and.

It goes on, and on, and on. There’s so much to do, and he’s got to do it _alone_ , because Snow’s _dead_. She’s never going to get justice because he’s so fucking shit at his job that she does it with him. She’d been his friend, and he’s the sheriff, and she’s _still_ dead.

Protect the fables his ass.

Brannigan is getting increasingly pissed off, he can tell, making significant glances at that mirror, behind which Bigby can detect several beating hearts. Before she can continue, go bad cop or ask more questions that he can’t answer- whatever, an eerie, high pitched noise begins to whistle through the room.

A trickle of blood runs down her nose, and Bigby begins to feel a trickle of alarm, raising his eyebrows doubtfully. He peers intently at her, trying to assess if she’s okay, what’s going on.

Because it certainly _feels_ like something is going on.

“I’m detective Brannigan,” she tells him, matter of fact. Just as she had several minutes ago when she’d entered the room. The alarm is beginning to turn to unease.

“Do you hear that?” she whispers, sounding slightly terrified, as if it’s a secret she has to hide.

Then she’s covering her ears, and flinching as if from an invisible blow. _“Please,”_ she says sounding desperate and pained.

Behind the mirror Bigby hears the thud of multiple bodies hitting the floor, and turns horrified to the sound, as if he could see through the glass.

Something is very, very, wrong here, and he’s not sure what. Brannigan slumps forward onto the table and he braces himself for a fight. The camera is still filming, and here is Bigby, surrounded by slumped bodies.

He’s sure whoever is doing this is coming for him. He’s yet to see if that’s a good thing, though his instincts tell him no. A phone rings unanswered.

Then he sees Crane, pushing open the door to the interrogation room holding a large box labelled Evidence.

Presumably everything they have on Snow’s case, and Bigby would love to go over it later, just on the off chance the Mundy’s got anything helpful.

“We have to go. Now!” Crane tells him urgently, but Bigby remains sitting, staring at Brannigan’s prone form, trickle of blood still on her face, and blows out some smoke.

He wants an answer, he wants to know what’s happened. As much as he longs to waste no time, he’s not leaving this station full of bodies. He has no respect for Crane, and it seems Crane has no respect for Mundys.

“She’ll be fine,” Crane tells him rolling his eyes as if Bigby’s fucking stupid for giving a shit.

Bigby cocks an eyebrow dubiously at that statement, pointedly sweeping over the detective’s unmoving form.

“It’s just a memory wipe spell,” Crane sighs out, “Very expensive, but it works. The whole station will forget the last 24 hours and everything they saw at the Woodlands.”

Bigby takes a long drag, thinking that over. He guesses they’re just gonna have to hope that there was no shift change between now and finding- finding the head. Besides, there’s still the camera.

He’s also going to have to hope that there were no _Mundy_ criminals in here being arrested or interrogated for the fucked up shit that people do to each other. Crane thinks he’s so fucking clever, and sure Bigby’s glad to be out- even if it grates to be beholden to _Crane_ \- but they have more problems than just memories.

Digital memories can’t be so easily wiped.

Crane clearly hasn’t thought about any of this though. “Well hurry up!” the man shouts indignantly, before walking out the door.

Bigby stubs out his cigarette in the ash tray, making sure it’s thoroughly ground out before pocketing it. Wouldn’t do to leave any evidence behind. He fiddles with the camera a little, trying to find out where the tape is stored on it, before nabbing that too. He rips out the top pages of Brannigan’s notebook, and then does a quick sweep around the front of the station after exiting the small room to check there is nothing out in the open with his name on it.

He’d like to do a more thorough search, but he doesn’t have the time.

Then he’s walking out to join Crane in his car and get far away from here and back to work. This is his _job_ , and he will fucking do it.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lol so I had this chapter written for like a month but I just forgot to post it because I'm an idiot. Enjoy

It’s awkward, and uncomfortable, and he hates it- sitting next to Crane in his fancy car while stuck in traffic. There are horns hooting everywhere, and Crane keeps shooting him looks and trying to start conversation, and act like _they’re_ friends.

Bigby just wants to think, and work. Both things he can do far, _far_ , better away from Crane.

He’s so fucking tired, but he can’t sleep and he _cannot_ be arsed to deal with the man. Not _now_.

So when Crane clears his throat, Bigby turns his head towards him, and wills him to say something- if the man has something, anything, important to say, honestly tries to give him his attention. But if Crane just wants to start conversation he needs to look elsewhere.

“We uh, we found Tweedle Dee chained up to a post.” Crane says at last, “That was your doing, correct? Well I don’t know why you detained him.” He adds critically, derision dripping from the words.

Bigby does not have fucking time for this. Crane trying to tell him how to do his job, interfere like he knows _anything_ about the details of this case- like he knows anything full stop.

“Dee was at the Trip Trap when Snow was left at the Woodlands, so he couldn’t possibly be involved in this mayhem.” Crane adds, sounding so sure of himself and Bigby longs to be able to inform the man what a colossal idiot and prick he is.

Point the first, Dee has a brother. Point the second, not having got his hands _personally_ bloody doesn’t mean the Tweedle isn’t involved, he’s been far too surrounded by this case already. Point the third, conspiracy, which is really the second point but whatever. He wouldn’t tell Crane this even if he could, the man would either go crazy with paranoia, or say that _Bigby_ was the crazy one, but still.

He keeps staring straight ahead and doesn’t even bother to dignify Crane’s statement with a response, doesn’t even try to convey any of his thoughts. He’s got better things to think about- like what he wants to ask Dee. Then…

“Bluebeard’s currently interrogating him,” Crane says smoothly and Bigby whips his head around at that. Because they have a _system_ here, there is a process, and there is a _law_. Snow would have wanted procedure followed to the letter, _Bigby_ wants procedure followed, because if he doesn’t stick to the rules what makes him any different than the fables he spends his time picking apart.

Additionally, the words “Blubeard” and “interrogate” are not words that go together well, not words that conjure up images of tables and cameras and files and paperwork. They promise mould, and sharp teeth and blood.

Then Crane goes on about _Bigby’s_ conduct. Bigby’s, when Crane’s reaction to a gruesome murder was to go have a massage and complain about wine. To belittle Snow, and only is starting to give a damn now when it’s someone he actually knew.

He’s not a fucking hammer. He doesn’t _want_ to get into fights- and yet, it’s all the other fables ever seem to give him.

He leans back in his seat, trying to let his mind rest even while it furiously keeps itself awake plotting questions. Crane’s still not done talking though, claiming to know what Bigby _thinks_ \- like that fucker has _any_ idea what is going on inside his head.

Nobody knows what goes on in _anyone’s_ head, but people seem to think they can just read Bigby. They’re all so fucking wrong. He’s not an animal, he’s not just his base instincts.

“It’s been one full night, and a slice of morning and I already miss her too.” Crane tells him, sorrow in his voice, and this must be his attempt to _bond_. Crane treated Snow like _shit_ when he was alive, and Bigby doesn’t want to hear the other man’s grief or share sorrow with the likes of Crane.

~~He can barely bring himself to think about it, her head lying there, skin as white as snow, hair as-~~

_No_.

Right now he’s not focused on Snow, his friend. He’s focused on Faith, aka Donkeyskin and Snow white, murder victims- giving them the justice they deserve.

 **Maybe you should have been better at giving them the protection they needed when they were still alive.** The nasty little voice tells him, and Bigby agrees. Which shuts the voice up, because it doesn’t seem to like it when Bigby agrees, loves a fight. But that’s not important now. What’s important is getting information, and finding out what’s going on. Making sure that this- or anything like this, doesn’t ever, _ever_ , happen again.

“You know, I never get more homesick than when one of us dies,” Crane keeps prattling on beside him, “and now… for it to be Snow… I’ve never been good with these sorts of things. I just can’t believe this is really happening.”

Bigby hears Crane’s voice break and almost feels bad for him, and yet. The man is somehow managing to make this all about _himself_. Bigby is fucking _upset_ too. He’s so fucking grief stricken that he doesn’t know how to deal with it and is turning it into anger, into motivation. But it’s not about _him_.

It’s not about how he feels. It’s about the fact that two women are _dead_ , and that is wrong.

Forget whenever he’s said he longs to shout at Crane in the past, this moment now he wishes he could quietly, calmly, _cuttingly_ , give Crane a piece of his mind. But, well, he can’t. So he just keeps staring dead ahead, feeling rage seethe beneath his skin.

Crane’s still talking, and Bigby can’t bring himself to listen, it’s just going to make him more mad, and Bigby wants to be more than his anger. He does catch Crane calling that an end is “ _necessary”_ \- like Bigby doesn’t fucking know? It smarts though, it smarts on the behalf of a girl who’s not able to care anymore than Crane only started to give one iota of a shit about people being killed until it was Snow.

The acting mayor, meant to look after them all, and he didn’t give a single toss when it was “just” a dead prostitute. Snow is-was- the moments that Bigby spends with Snow are generally the happiest he has. But Faith deserves for someone with power to give a shit about her too.

Eventually, far too longer later, they arrive back at the Woodlands, the gates tall and menacing. As they step out of the car it hits Bigby that he’s going to have to walk up those steps, the steps where-

He shakes his head clearing it. He can’t have another breakdown today, he has a job to do. He owes both of them, Faith and Snow- and Lawrence- more than that.

Crane says some more words, but Bigby just lets them hit his back as he determinedly walks through the gates, pushing all thoughts of blood ~~as red as~~ out of his mind.


	11. Chapter 11

The basement is grotty, and poorly lit- but not as damp as the images in Bigby’s mind had portrayed it as. What had been accurate was Dee bound to a chair, and Bluebeard surrounded by knives and blades.

If Bigby were any less wary, and any less sure of his ability to handle himself he wouldn’t want to be alone in a room with Bluebeard. He still _doesn’t_ , but that kind of thing is his job, and better him than anyone else.

Bluebeard may have claimed he’s changed, and Bigby should be all for second chances but he finds it hard to convince himself. Or maybe Bluebeard _has_ changed, gone from the pretty young girls he makes his wives to people who can put up more of a fight. Even though he still holds all the power, and ensures the odds are securely in his own favour.

Anybody who leaves Bluebeard alone with _anyone_ in an official capacity is an idiot- hell more than that, straight up negligent. But Bigby already knew that about Crane.

Bigby had heard Bluebeard’s crooning before he’d even entered the building, and despite himself he almost finds himself endeared to Tweedle Dee as he sarcastically mouths off to Bluebeard. It’s the kind of thing he’d want to say when he knew all chips were down.

 _Almost_.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Crane asks indignantly, and Bigby can’t help but wonder what the hell Crane _thought_ leaving Bluebeard alone with a person who’s been tied up would lead to.

He’s too tired for this and his eyes are itching, and he doesn’t know how to get Bluebeard out of here- not without a fight. He doesn’t want to fight, he doesn’t have the time to waste nor the inclination for more blood.

Hasn’t there been enough fucking blood already?

“No violence!” Crane hisses at Bluebeard- like it will make any difference. A small bitter smile works its way onto Bigby’s face at the idea of Crane being able to stop Bluebeard from doing _anything_.

Bluebeard clearly seems to feel the same way. Returning a blasé “whatever you say Ichabod” before walking off to observe the proceedings from the corner of the room.

“Hello Bigby,” Dee drawls, blood in his teeth and down his shirt. Bigby almost feels bad for the man that he’s been roughed up- but instead he mostly feels anger at Bluebeard for being a thug- and himself for failing to actually do his fucking job.

Bigby folds his arms and stares back impassively, trying to get a read on Dee, trying to work out how to start. If he keeps this up long enough Crane or Bluebeard might start chipping in with their own questions, but right now he’s just trying to see if he can make Dee squirm.

“Nothing to say Bigby? Maybe it’s not answers you want but _questions_. Unfortunately I’m having so much trouble thinking of any good ones.” A pause while Dee sneers up at him, “Though I’d settled on how’s your head?”

Bigby feels his facea tighten a little but otherwise tries to refrain from giving Dee any kind of response. He forces himself to keep his arms where they are, folded across his chest, as opposed to giving Dee the satisfaction of rubbing his head.

It doesn’t hurt anymore anyway. Fable healing and all.

“You see what I’ve been dealing with?” Bluebeard demands angrily- as if that gave him a _right_ or a _reason_ to beat a man tied to a chair. Bigby has no real sympathy or love for Tweedle Dee- but there are _rules_ and he has some fucking morality.

He can’t help but bitterly think that it’s just another case of Bluebeard taking joy hurting those who can’t hurt him back.

“What are you going to do about this Bigby?” Bluebeard continues- as if a pithy comment warrants some kind of brutal crackdown.

He thinks for a moment of his interrogation at the police station and Detective Brannigan as he once more takes in the dingy surroundings of the basement and the bloodied nature of Tweedle Dee still tied to a chair. And yet they say that he’s the monster, that the mundies are backwards.

Bigby keeps his face blank as he continues to stare down at Dee, it bothers him that he can’t seem to get a read on the man. He can’t tell if the sarcastic commentary is genuine or covering for fear. All he knows is that Dee is somehow involved in this, knows it deep in his bones.

He also knows he has questions he wants to ask, but he can’t. Because he’s a fucking _failure_ and if there was ever a time to speak it would be now, except that the more he thinks about it the more the words stick in his throat.

“ _I_ didn’t kill anyone,” Dee tells him smarmily before continuing with a singsong lilt, “You were with me when it happened dummy.”

Which is true- except Bigby doesn’t think that Dee _did_ it, he’s just willing to bet his head on the fact that he _knows_ something. Maybe Dum did it, maybe they’re both working together on the behalf of yet another party in this sordid affair. Bigby doesn’t know, and this is why he _needs_ to be able to speak, but he can’t so he’s just left standing here, trying and failing to intimidate the answers he wants without having to ask the questions.

If he got his fists involved, if he wolfed out he thinks there’s a reasonable chance he could get Dee to start singing a good portion of what he wants to know.

But Bigby’s not like that, doesn’t _want_ to be like that. Especially not in the search of justice for two of the few Fables who have looked at him and seen more than a monster or a hammer.

“This is ridiculous,” Bigby hears Bluebeard mutter after another 30 seconds of silence pass by. Personally Bigby doesn’t blame him, he’d frankly been hoping that Crane or Bluebeard would lead the questioning while he just analysed the answers or gave unimpressed glares when needed.

Of course now is the first and only time Crane’s ever acknowledged Bigby’s competence and wants _him_ to solely lead the interrogation. Nevermind the fact that Crane has never heard Bigby utter a fucking word. He can’t be too mad, because he _likes_ that they don’t know how his throat seizes up and leaves him fucking useless- but sometimes it still rankles that nobody seems to know.

“Why don’t you start by telling us what you’re up to?” Bluebeard _finally_ interjects and thank you, because Bigby needs answers, he needs to get justice for two women who didn’t deserve this.

Dee continues to be pithy, and Bigby clenches his hands a little but refuses to make any kind of movement towards Dee. He turns away, to gather his thoughts, to think of what he wants to know- to find something to pick on- he doesn’t know.

His gaze falls on the photograph of Snow’s severed head that he’d swiped from the Mundy police station and once more he can feel himself being drawn into it as if the very photo itself is swallowing him up. He hears Dee say something, but he can’t pick out _what_ , distracted by the blood- not red- in the black and white photo.

Stiltedly he lowers the picture and lifts his head to shake himself out of it and back into reality without showing it to Dee. He slips it carefully into his back pocket.

Still, one advantage came of his sudden spiral and permanent silence, suddenly Dee seems rather uncomfortable and almost nervous as if Bigby’s managed to unsettle him. Before Bigby’s even really fully gotten his head back into interrogation mode the Tweedle is babbling.

“Look, Bigby. We’re not on opposite sides here. My brother and I are trying to get to the bottom of things, same as you.”

He rolls his eyes a little at that, screw the unprofessionalism because him and the Tweedles are not the same, no matter what Dee might want to think.

Bigby doesn’t knock people out in dirty alleys or rough up kids.

It seems that Dee senses Bigby’s lack of pleasure at that response, because looking increasingly nervous which only grows as Bigby tilts his head pointedly at the mention of Dum. It seems that there is a way to crack the Tweedle after all.

“I can’t say, he could have been anywhere…” Dee tries to fob him off nervously, and Bigby’s got him sweating now.

Naturally this is when Bluebeard decides to intervene- when the fear’s showing and they’re the ones holding all the power in the situation again. Bigby would be more pissed if it weren’t for the fact that he kind of does need someone to lead this interrogation.

“Take your best guess.”

“He didn’t do it- if that’s what you’re thinking.” Dee bites out, sounding more shocked than alarmed though that undercurrent of fear is still present.

Bigby actually believes him- believes him on _this_. So, it looks like they’re definitely acting on someone else’s orders then- but whose? Maybe the Pimp, but it just doesn’t feel right, the Tweedles seem to be too big to work for some random pimp.

Every stone they turn just seems to reveal 3 more stones beneath it.

“I answered your question, can I get my stuff back now?” Dee implores Bigby- which is a first that he’s heard of this. He turns angrily to Crane, annoyed that he wasn’t informed of any possession that Dee may have had on him, who awkwardly apologises.

“Oh, ah there was nothing much of consequence really,” Crane tells him, trying to cover up.

Bigby doesn’t snort, but it’s effort. He will decide whether or not it’s of any importance- as the Sheriff with experience- not Crane who can barely tell his arse from his elbow.

Crane shakes out a box- and to his credit there isn’t in fact much. The cigar and the alcohol are incidental, but the roll of cash catches Bigby’s eye.

It’s a lot of cash to be carrying at one time, and the way it’s rolled makes Bigby’s mind go places like Bribe, backhanded and other words beginning with “B”.

He leaves the cigar and the bottle of booze, but pointedly picks up the roll of dollars and absently passes it between his fingers keeping his gaze trained on Dee and raising an eyebrow sceptically.

“I’ve got a lot of laundry to do this week,” Dee tells him snottily, “What’s it to you?” As excuses go, that is just pathetic and Bigby wishes he could let Dee know just what he thinks about all these smartass comments.

No further comment or clarification appears to be coming from Dee though, so he just places the money back down on the tray and takes a step back.

“Ask him about the other girl Bigby- not Snow,” Crane calls from the back of the room. Ask him yourself Bigby thinks irritably, but just waves his hand at Dee as if to say “go on” instead of showing his anger and annoyance towards Crane.

If it smarts that he can’t even remember Faith’s name, then Bigby keeps that anger pressed down too because it’s not going to help her now.

A wave of sadness washes over him when he thinks about her, and some of it must show on his face because Dee launches into another tirade.

“You think that girl was sweet? She was a _fucking_ thief!” Dee says indignant, and just surprised enough that it comes across as unintentionally genuine, “Faith was plenty of things, but that ain’t one of them.” He continues, the meanness back in the Tweedle’s voice.

“I mean you _know_ what she did for a living, right?” Dee asks him, leaning heavy on the words, clearly trying to read Bigby’s face.

Thing is Bigby does know, and Dee asks him like it _matters_. Bigby doesn’t give a shit about who she was or what she’s done- or well, he _does_ \- but it doesn’t bear any importance on the fact that she was murdered.

She was a prostitute? So fucking what, it’s not really any of Bigby’s concern. What matters is that she was _murdered_. ~~What matters is that she looked at him and didn’t see a hammer.~~

“Sorry to ruin your little fantasy, Bigby,” Dee continues when it becomes clear to him that Bigby’s not going to respond. He wants to snarl, to grit his teeth, but he’s the authority here. He has to remain calm, he can’t reprimand Bluebeard and then let it go himself.

There’s no fucking fantasy here. There’s the fact that Bigby has now let two women down, and they’ve been murdered to pay for his mistakes. The fact is that Bigby doesn’t want a third. The fact is it doesn’t matter that Faith was a hooker, it matters that she’s _dead_.

He pointedly doesn’t think about Snow, can’t think about her.

Bigby’s no white knight- and he’s not _trying_ to be. He’s just trying to do his job- to be a fucking _decent_ human being. It makes him angry that Dee can’t see that, that he can’t seem to see any value in Faith’s life beyond a prostitute.

Like she wasn’t a person, like she didn’t have loved ones too.

But then Dee’s off his guard and starts talking about his boss and Bigby tries his best not to react, prays Bluebeard and Crane don’t interject either and that dee just keeps talking himself into this hole that he doesn’t seem to be aware he’s making.

But no.

“Your boss…” Bluebeard drawls out smug as ever and Bigby can practically feel the alarm growing inside Dee at this very moment, can see it etch itself across his face. He shuts up and for a moment there’s no more cocksure bravado, there’s just fear plain and simple.

It’s gone almost as soon as it came, and the bravado is back in full force.

“You’re gonna get me in trouble Bigby,” Dee says lightly as if they’re friends, as if it’s a fucking _joke_. A joke that two women have been _murdered_. “I can’t answer any more of your questions.”

Bigby wants to scoff, because it’s not like _Dee_ gets a say in the matter, but equally it’s not like Bigby can _force_ the other man to say anything. He feels a sudden pang of sympathy for Brannigan.

They stand in silence for a little longer, and Bigby can feel Bluebeard practically itching for some violence- as if he anticipates that now Bigby’s finally going to _snap_.

Bigby’s not like Bluebeard- he’s _not_. He doesn’t revel or relish in hurting people, and if he had his way he would never fucking have to. Bluebeard’s just going to have to be disappointed, and Bigby would be lying if that thought didn’t make him happy.

Silence makes lots of people into talkers, they seem to feel a need to fill up the void, and despite his bravado it seems that deep down Dee’s not any different.

“Look,” Dee tells him at last, leaning forward as if trying to bring Bigby into his confidence, “You’re not a bad guy-“ then mutters “-despite what Beauty says about you- At least, you’re not a _total_ bastard, anyway.” Well it’s nice for that to be acknowledged, though Bigby doubts that Dee believes it, doubts it’s anymore than desperate sweettalking.

It’s interesting that he brings up Beauty- not that Bigby necessarily cares much about her opinion per se, but rather the implication that she somehow _knows_ the tweedles. Bigby wonders if it has anything to wherever she was sneaking off to that night.

“But I just can’t give you that information,” Dee continues before finally ending with a shrug- as if he’s _genuinely_ sorry. As if.

If Bigby had had _any_ doubts about his involvement prior to this interview Dee’s lack of cooperation and glib remarks have securely obliterated them.

It seems Bluebeard’s had enough though, enough with Dee’s smartassery and Bigby’s silence. Bigby’s lack of violence too- the fact that Bigby _tries_ to be a good _person_.

“I thought this was meant to be a murder investigation, but you’re treating this guy like a fucking houseguest!” Bluebeard spits out as he strides forward. Instinctively, Bigby shifts to try and block Dee from Bluebeard’s line of site.

“You’re not getting any answers from him this way,” Bluebeard hisses, and Bigby could scream because he has got some _fucking_ answers and a _toddler_ knows that twisting someone’s arm or beating them tends to result in the answers your want to fucking _hear_ \- not the answers that are _true_ or helpful.

“Snow white is dead- one of us!” Bluebeard tells him- as if he doesn’t know- as if he doesn’t care. Bigby can feel himself shutting down, because he can’t think about it- not now, not yet. He focuses on Bluebeard’s lack of regard for Faith as an attempt to ground himself- let the anger pull him back from the precipice of grief.

He’s distantly aware that Bluebeard is still speaking to him, but he’s too busy trying to get a hold of himself to parse out what the other man is trying to say.

Then suddenly he’s being shoved aside- that more than anything breaking him out of the tailspin he’s been aware he was entering. But before he can collect himself fully there’s a crunching, thwacking sound of fist meeting flesh and Dee gasping.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Crane calls out timidly, and for once Bigby’s in mind with Crane. He tries to collect the last vestiges of his abandoned focus and tenses, ready to intercept Bluebeard.

Bluebeard hits Dee once again, this time in the face and Bigby’s had fucking enough. Enough of Bluebeard, enough of Dee, enough of Crane and this fucking basement and all the fucking violence. Enough of the fact that Bluebeard can viciously beat a man tied to a chair and have it all swept under the rug- but if Bigby hits Gren or Woody in self-defence to stop them from fucking _killing_ him he’s branded as a monster.

He grabs and spins Bluebeard away, bracing himself for a fight, but instead Bluebeard grabs him by the shoulders and shoves him into a wall. Bigby’s waiting for the punch thrown his way though, and easily dodges it before slamming Bluebeard himself back into the opposite wall. There’s a crunch as his head hits the pipe.

Bluebeard is angry, and desperate and it takes most of Bigby’s strength to keep the other man pinned there against the wall without hurting him, while Bluebeard keeps trying to sock him in the face.

There’s a creak as the metal door swings open and Bigby’s head swings round to join it.

He feels himself go limp and backs away from where he’s pinning Blubeard up against the wall and for a moment he can barely breathe.

In the doorway stands Snow White, alive and breathing. He glances around quickly but judging by the shocked expressions on everyone else’s faces it means she’s really truly there.

“What’s going on down here?” she demands, and suddenly Bigby can feel the disappointment set in. That two-one? Women had died, and here he is- the _sheriff_ \- spending his time trying to restrain a fucking spoilt brat with a mean streak instead of trying to _solve_ the problem.

He feels another spike of anger and disgust at Bluebeard rise within him.

It wasn’t me! It was Bluebeard! He thinks childishly for a moment. But then all his thoughts are occupied with the fact that Snow is _alive_ and it almost feels like he can breathe again.


	12. Part 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back, hopefully next chapter will be sooner.  
> Rewatching this bit of the game Toad's attitude to TJ just ehhh.  
> Please do leave a comment if you enjoyed it.

Snow doesn’t say anything as they make their way back towards the lobby the tension emanating off her in waves. Grimble’s still asleep, because _of course,_ because it’s not like he has a job or could have been a useful witness if he were watching the front step like he’s fucking _paid_ to do.

It’s not until they’re past Grimble and his potentially prying ears (though he’d have to wake up first) that Snow finally speaks and makes her unhappiness at him and the entire situation known. Normally it hurts more, Snow being mad at him, but right now he’s still too busy delighting in the fact that she’s _alive_ to even be mad at him that it doesn’t really bother him all too much.

“What was going on down there Bigby? _Abusing_ a prisoner like that?” Snow asks him, disappointment strong, anger less so.

Bigby just looks off to the side and he thinks he probably looks a bit ashamed. He knows what it looked like and he’s not really sure how to explain this, how to play this. Silence can come off as flippancy and god knows Bigby is anything but flippant about police brutality and Bluebeard beating on people because it makes the man feel good.

He can actually appreciate that Snow’s so mad because at least it means she’s taking this seriously, not just willing to let it slide like Crane would, actually trying to uphold some sort of checks over the authority.

Besides, even if Bigby hadn’t beaten up Dee, Bluebeard had done so under his watch which means that he’s still partially to blame. He feels like he’s probably partly to blame even if it feels kind of unfair to himself because it’s not like he’d even wanted or agreed to have Bluebeard there in the first place.

“I thought you could control yourself,” Snow continues after she’s let Bigby stand in silence for a time.

That, that hurts. He knows it’s because she’s tired, can see her rubbing her head and he’s aware that it’s been a long night- for all of them. Suddenly his own eyes are reminding him how long it was since they had last been decently shut.

But losing his control- having Snow see him lose his control, becoming the _hammer_ that they all say he is happens to be one of his worst fears, biggest dreads. He doesn’t want _Snow_ to think of him like that.

“I hope it was worth your time,” Snow finishes before stalking off to the elevator, leaving him standing in the hallway. He gives her an “are you fucking kidding me?” gesture to her back that she probably doesn’t notice but jogs to catch her up. Tensions and issues aside there’s still a murder to solve, and if the head hadn’t belonged to Snow then it had belonged to someone else.

He scowls at her back before looking away when he can feel a glare of Snow’s own on the back of his neck, crossing his arms defensively in front of his chest.

Snow informs him that TJ’s found a body- likely the body of the fake Snow, and god Bigby hopes so, hopes that there’s not _another_ woman dead- what kind of a failure would that make him? It takes him a moment to get past the surprise of a body belonging to the head they’d found, Bigby blames the sleep deprivation as to why it’s taken him so long to remember that finding Snow alive and well doesn’t mean someone else isn’t dead.

He feels like crap when he realises. This is someone’s _life_. The fuck could he forget? What the fuck does that make him as a person?

Bigby follows Snow into the lift and scratches his chin, too tired to come up with any meaningful response that doesn’t involve words, too _useless_ to come up with one that does. Despite himself though, he finds his eyes drifting over to Snow, as if she’ll disappear if he looks away. To keep checking that the Snow next to him is the _real_ one, and that she’s alive and not staring up with glassy eyes.

“What’s the matter?” Snow asks him eventually, and he can sense her unease and Bigby doesn’t _want_ to make her uncomfortable, so he just shakes his head and looks away again. He tries to keep watching her out of the corner of his eye though, because he can’t quite squash that fear that this is all some fever dream. Maybe he’s still in that police station and this is just one sleep deprived induced fantasy. He doubts it though, he’s pretty sure he’s awake, he feels crap enough for it.

“I just…” Snow starts and trails off as they exit the elevator. Bigby taps his fingers together in a gesture to continue, shaping his face into something supportive when she turns around to look at him.

“I just feel responsible. She looked _exactly_ like me, and what if that’s why she was killed?” Snow’s voice is full of desperation and panic and it cuts through the hazy fog that Bigby keeps slipping back into without really wanting to.

It’s like someone’s slipped ice down the back of his shirt and his spine snaps into straightness on instinct. He shakes his head, _no_ , and tries to convey how _useless_ this line of thinking is with his eyes. It’s difficult when she keeps shifting away from him, and he tries to furrow his brows, try and make what he’s thinking _clear_.

 **Useless shithead** , his thoughts tell him. **_You’re_ making her feel guilty**.

Snow’s not to blame, the murderer is- but even if she _was_ , then feeling guilty gets you nowhere. Bigby’s to blame for Faith’s murder he feels it deep in his bones, and maybe he’s to blame here too, for failing at his job. But being guilty doesn’t get justice- he doesn’t stop because he’s guilty.

And Snow’s _good_ , she’s not like him. Her mind doesn’t wage war on her words and she’s not a hammer and half of Fable town respects her and the other half _should_. She’s not like Bigby. She’s not to blame.

He just wishes he could _tell_ her that.

“We just have to find out who did this,” Snow continues after a while, “And why she was glamoured to look like me.” Her voice reaches a high note of suppressed panic again at the end.

Bigby folds his arms and raises his eyebrows above his half grin. That’s the million dollar question isn’t it? Who did this murder and _why_. And _why_ is someone glamoured to be Snow- because that’s _another_ thing that’s very illegal.

 _Conspiracy_ , his mind whispers. Bigby agrees completely now, there is something going on here, more than just a murderer, or a serial killer perhaps. Something is rotten in Fabletown, has been for a while. Bigby’s always felt that maybe protecting this town was too much, full of entitled shitheads and cruel bastards. But he’s always tried to protect the innocents, the people who get trodden down and ignored.

 _He’s_ been the one ignoring them. (Because he’s a failure, and a waste of space, and nothing but a _hammer_ acting on command). But no more.

Faith said he wasn’t as bad as everyone said he was. By god he wants that to be true- for _her_ , because she was dead now and he hadn’t known her before the day she died. He thinks he’s worse. But he can try and be the man she thought he was, and the man that she and this other woman deserve. Fabletown is rotting, and maybe fuck it all, but not the people. Never the people.

They start walking again, picking up pace and heading to the business office. Distantly, in a vaguely amused but very attached way, Bigby finds it funny that he seems to do most of his work not in his office. It’s a shithole, not enough space for four people for an interrogation. Bigby thinks it reflects pretty well on his use.

“So, what’s our next move?” Snow asks tiredly, looking straight ahead and without turning back to look at him. Something clenches in him.

Talk to TJ, examine the body, try and work out who it belonged to, proceed further when he have clues, his mind reels out on instinct.

Except he can’t say it, and Snow isn’t looking at him and –

He doesn’t think Snow knows he can’t speak. He likes that, he doesn’t want her to think he’s a _hammer_. (He squishes down the part of him that says that she wouldn’t.) Sometimes Bigby really thinks she knows, because she’s so _good_ about it, good at reading him and asking things in the right way.

But she hasn’t turned to look at him and-

“If we’re going to work together on this, you need to actually talk to me!” Snow exclaims, turning around at last. He knows it’s a mixture of exhaustion and fear turning into irritation and anger but all he feels is useless.

Look at him. He can’t even do _this_. He’s trying to run an operation and he can’t fucking _speak_ \- who thought that was a good idea.

Except Bigby wouldn’t trust anyone else to do this, and he knows he can do this he just-

He just thought he’d maybe have Snow’s support, and he’s so, so, tired.

“What do you expect me to do!” Snow continues angrily, “Sit around the business office, twiddling my thumbs, waiting for the Big _Bad_ Wolf to solve all my problems?”

He likes Snow, and he knows she doesn’t mean it, but his face shutters at that.

The Big _Bad_ Wolf. The fable, the _beast_. Not a man but a creature who just causes havoc and destruction and can’t do anything right.

He is trying.

(Oh god he is _trying_.)

///////////

Apparently, TJ’s pretty traumatised. Which isn’t surprising and it’s not like Bigby would judge the kid, but he’s not sure how to lead the interrogation. Considering he tends to just try and intimidate people. This feels like a _perfect_ excuse for Snow to take the lead- kinder, and gentler and more fucking verbose than Bigby.

But this is his job, and he can’t just outsource it, and he’s the one with the questions and-

His thoughts are running round and round and there is no chance in fat hell is he getting any words out with this mess.

Maybe a kind expectant face will do it, because if he’s anything like his father then TJ will love to talk. Snow can prompt maybe.

It’s fine- he’s not a hammer.

The dead women deserve better than him. But he’s all they’ve got so he’ll have to be good enough. He’ll be damned if he’s not good enough, even if it kills him.

Their footsteps echo as they enter the business office and Snow whirls round to ask him if he wants to talk to TJ or see the body first. Considering that they’ve already left Toad and TJ waiting all this time, along with the fact that they’ve literally just headed to the business office, Bigby thinks he wants to talk to TJ.

Before he can signal this though, Bufkin flies in and Snow heads off to have a discussion with him. Not before Bigby glowers at his retreating back though. He sighs internally, and decides to slowly walk over in an attempt to find the two toads, hoping that Snow will finish and come to join him by the time he finds them.

They’re looking at something in the mirror- Bigby doesn’t know what. He doesn’t really care either, other than the bitter angriness that the Mirror will work for Toad but not Bigby. Even though it’s _Bibgy’s_ fault because he can’t speak- but the Mirror doesn’t even _need_ that, and he _hates_ it. He hates it so much. Sometimes he even thinks he hates the Mirror more than he hates himself.

Bigby has to admit he is a little suspicious by Toad’s frantic demands for the Mirror to stop though (and it doesn’t even _rhyme_ ) which makes his instincts flare up about what Toad could possibly be doing but-

But it doesn’t matter. He’s here to talk to TJ and try and get justice for two murdered women- Faith and the unknown one. (He doesn’t even know her _name_.)

Toad’s offended shout has the benefit of drawing Snow’s attention, so at least something good has come of this.

“No ‘arm done, Right Bigby?” Toad reassures Snow, and then looks at him in what his probably meant to be a threat except that Bigby could _eat_ Toad. (But he wouldn’t- not anymore, because he’s not like that.)

Bigby just rolls his eyes and nods slightly at Snow. It’s really not the point of all this right now. Not when he can’t keep his eyes open and he hasn’t slept in several days.

That’s when TJ starts sniffling, and Snow bends down to reassure him- because people like and trust Snow. They see a person- sometimes they probably see the wrong one- like Crane. But they see a person. Once again, Bigby is hit by a sudden urge to just let Snow handle this- it’s not the kind of interrogation he usually gets into.

But Snow’s glaring at him to crouch down as well, so with a roll of his eyes and an inaudible crack of his knees, he draws himself down to TJ’s level. Toad’s glare also seems to lessen a fraction, which is good he supposes.

“Are you ready to talk to Mr Wolf?” Snow asks a still sniffling TJ, and Bigby steels himself, pulls himself together. Information is important, and anything that good give them a clue as to the identity of the woman glamoured as Snow, or the identity of whoever dropped the body is crucial.

He stifles down a bitter snort at “talking” with him and flicks his eyes and full attention onto the kid.

Bigby tries to give TJ a reassuring smile to convince him to start talking, but all it serves to do is cause TJ’s shoulders to rise higher to meet his chin and dart several nervous looks in Snow’s direction. It’s not until Snow’s repeated prompting that he actually starts to speak and Bigby is hit again by how fucking _useless_ he is.

“I go swimming at night sometimes, in the river.” TJ starts, “I wasn’t doing anything bad- I promise!” and the kid sounds so fucking _desperate_ like he’s going to be in trouble for witnessing a murder. Glamour or no glamour, Bigby isn’t going to take it up with a traumatised kid. He tries to smile again, but he wonders if maybe it just comes off all teeth and he abruptly snaps it off his face.

Once Toad and Snow have reassured TJ Bigby scrunches his eyebrows and stares at TJ to signal for him to continue. It’s like a softer version, a more _irritated_ than angry version of what he normally uses to get people to talk. It still feels slightly off.

“I was there… under the big blocks, and I heard noisy feet. And when I hear that, I’m supposed to go underwater and stay real still and quiet.” Bigby nods slightly, because that makes sense, and it’s reassuring that Toad has at least _some_ measures for keeping TJ undetected. TJ, for his part looks to his dad for reassurance, and the kid _almost_ seems to have calmed down before he starts up again.

“Then I saw- I saw the lady.” Here TJ starts breaking down completely again, his breath coming in gasps and Bigby almost wants to reach out and try to comfort him, except that he’s aware enough to know how that will go.

Very badly.

Instead all he can do is wait.

“The lady, fell in,” TJ continues after he’s calmed down a bit, still sobbing intermittently, “But she didn’t have her head on! I thought she was gonna pull me down too, because she had _rocks_ on her feet and she kept falling down in the dark parts.”

A chill spreads through Bigby. TJ had thought they were rocks, but TJ is a kid. Cinderblocks tied to her ankles. Someone wanted to make _sure_ that this woman wasn’t found. It doesn’t match up with whoever so carefully displayed the decapitated heads on the doorsteps. Snow gives him a dark, but significant look. It’s clear she’s worked it out too.

“Do you know when people are lying?” TJ asks him, still sniffling and suddenly seeming very nervous. Like Bigby is still the fabled Big Bad Wolf, like he’s something more than he is.. “People say you can, that’s why you’re the Sheriff.”

He just suddenly feels very tired, because this kid thinks he’s meant to protect him, seems to think that Bigby is somehow better when he’s just struggling to get through the day like the rest of them.

Bigby tries, but he’s just one person, and he’s good at detecting lies but only because everyone lies to him so _fucking_ much.

“Is there something you want to tell us TJ?” Snow probes gently, giving TJ the out it seems he’s looking for.

“ _Please_ , don’t be mad,” is how TJ prefaces his statement, turning to look at Toad with such fear that Bigby feels his gaze sharpening on the grown amphibian a little.

“I didn’t stay under the water.” TJ shakes out.

“ _What?_ ” Toad growls, stepping forward and Bigby watches TJ shrink back, nervous and afraid.

“I know I’m supposed to, but I was scared, and I went to the top again. I couldn’t help it” TJ blubbers out, having stopped moving after taking a step away from his father. Bigby swings his gaze between them, not wanting to interfere and having to damn himself to a _conversation_ , but not quite comfortable with what he sees. TJ is scared, and this isn’t helping, and there is a dead woman’s body lying down in the basement. Toad shouts at TJ and Bigby just wants this to move on. Bigby can sense the concern in his words, but still, time and a place.

“Toad, please. He’s been through enough.” Snow cuts in at last, firmly but gently, speaking Bigby’s mind. Toad scowls.

“We’ll discuss this when we get home,” Toad tells his son darkly, folding his arms, and that makes something pick up in Bigby a little. Something shifts uncomfortably in him, and he tries to pin a warning look on Toad, but he’s too focused on his son.

“I don’t know if anyone saw me, but someone said “stop laughing”, and then I went underwater.” TJ continues and finishes at last. Bigby stares, trying to figure it out- someone laughing? Why? There were two people there? Or was that directed at the body? Who was laughing? What did they sound like?

“Bigby?” Snow asks, clearly winding up to finish the interrogation. Bigby’s not done, he wants to know the laughter. He can’t voice that though- because he’s a useless _dog_ , and Snow’s sending TJ home, and what he knows will have to be good enough. But Faith and the other woman deserve better than _good enough_.

He squeezes his eyes shut in irritation, tries to get a hold of himself, and watches as Toad escorts TJ out.

///////////

“That went about as well as I expected,” Snow bemoans once they’ve straightened out again, and Bigby lets out an irritated and amused huff. “You want to go look at the body now?” Snow asks, rubbing her temple and Bigby knows they should, but he can see the Mirror in the background, green and swirling like it wasn’t before and-

He hates the Mirror. He hates it, but he doesn’t want to walk into the Witching Well Chamber blind. He doesn’t want to have to come back up here. So he shakes his head and jerks it in the direction of the mirror before walking over.

“Hello Bigby, nice to see you,” The Mirror greets once he’s stood in front of it, without him even having to say a word. Instantly he’s on guard, because he doesn’t know _why_ the Mirror is giving him this, and surely if it is then there must be something _bad_.

Still, the Mirror just stares at him, so Bigby decides to try and ask something- but in his own way. See how the Mirror takes that. If it wants to tell him something then it can hurry up and do so.

He gestures with his hand to about Toad’s height, and then makes a sharp “I’m watching you” gesture, pointing his fingers from his eyes, he finishes it up with a shrug to show a question.

“Cinderella, selling shoes, Rapunzel, Rose, and then there’s you,” the Mirror intones, before following up a little more sharply. “And I can’t help note that you did not rhyme, Do try to stick to the rules next time?”

The Mirror… answered. And Bigby kind of wishes he’d picked a better question, because it shuts off afterwards and wont’ speak up again. Like it had given him this one thing, so it didn’t need to do anything else. But still, the Mirror had _answered_.

Toad had watched Cinderella, Rapunzel, Rose Red, and _him_. He thins his lips a little, wonders if there’s any connection between the four of them. Prays that Toad hadn’t been watching him during the fucking interrogation of Tweedle Dee, seen him trying to subdue Bluebeard.

He doesn’t know what to think, and he’s left staring at his reflection in the empty Mirror. He looks like crap, he wants to sleep, but there’s a dead body floors below and a murder(s) to be found, and there is a fucking _conspiracy_.

So he shakes off the need for sleep and goes to find Snow, to tell her that he’s read to go and look at the body. That it’s finally time.

“Oh my goodness, I almost forgot!” Bufkin exclaims, just as Bigby’s turning to go. The green monkey flies over to grab a box stamped with EVIDENCE- clearly taken from the police station- and to fly it down into the Chamber with them.

Irritation grows within Bigby- because this is important and there isn’t room for being lax or lazy.

But there’s no point or time for that and he’s following Snow out and down into the bowels of the building.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me I should stagger my posting so that I don't have a really long gap between chapters again... also have at!  
> dialogue from game, next chapter whenever, but I'm currently full of motivation so, maybe in a week.  
> Also thanks so much to everyone who's commenting, I didn't realise people actually read this lmao.

Bigby hates the Witching Well Chamber, it’s cold, and it’s wet and maybe it’s his Wolf instincts raring up ( **like the _beast_ you are**) but he hates it. Water drips everywhere like it’s raining and everything echoes off its cavernous walls.

The pencil and paper he’d hastily stuffed in his pocket under the pretext of making _notes_ , but really a way of getting around tricky conversation hurdles, feel weak and flimsy in his pocket. Cheap paper, water, not a good mix.

The body on the table is clearly one to match Snow (he feels sick) so it probably belongs to the unknown woman and not Faith. It’s not so bad, looking at the body and not just the head, especially when Snow is next to him, but he still has to blink several times to try and ground himself in the moment.

Snow looks shaken, and he can only imagine how unsettling it must be to see your own dead body (or rather a copy of it) lain out on a slab to be examined and prodded by your… colleague.

“The glamour is _so_ effective it’s invasive,” Snow says awkwardly, hanging back a little, and Bigby raises her head to look at her, eyes soft, trying to ask her if this is _ok_. Even though it’s obviously not because a woman is _dead_ and how could that _ever_ be okay?

“Just do what you need to do,” Snow tells him vaguely, nodding, and maybe Bigby’s not convinced she’s alright, but he has a _job_ and he owes it to this woman. He’s just going to have to take Snow on the value of her words.

Even though Bigby knows better than anyone that _words_ are the most precious, but least _useful_ way of assessing what it is that someone wants to say. It’s so much _easier_ to lie with words.

Snow suggests starting with the mouth, but there’s nothing in there. If Bigby were an idiot he might take that as a sign that the two cases weren’t connected, but despite what people will tell you, he’s _not_ an idiot. It _does_ make it hard to tell if the ribbon is something connected to the case though.

A quick examination of the neck confirms that too, the strange upward slope of the cut. It looks just like Faith. He notes that down. No ribbon, same cut, and then slips the paper back into his pocket before the water can get at it. He also makes a mental note to send Swineheart- or maybe Snow- a memo about Swineheart’s autopsy. Play it off like he _forgot_ , so he just had to send a note, and whoops, Snow wasn’t there.

There are thick, angry, red gouges around the woman’s ankles. Rope burn, which matches up with the cinderblocks. He waves at them, gets Bufkin’s and Snow’s attention- because there’s no point in them being here if he doesn’t try to let them know- and _triples_ his resolve to get to the bottom of this.

Whoever had killed her _really_ hadn’t wanted her found. Overkill much? His brain snorts, before he shuts that down, because there is a time and a place and the autopsy is _really_ not the appropriate one.

She’s also got track marks dotted down her legs- which either means she was a really heavy user- or she was trying to hide it. Which if she was also a prostitute, like Faith, might not be too off the mark. Bigby doubts most punters would find track marks real appealing. But who knows.

The main point is that Snow doesn’t do drugs- or not heroin. Not just because he trusts her, but because he’s pretty sure he would smell it. Which brings up the question of how he couldn’t tell that this body wasn’t Snow…

Except- he takes a whiff. There’s definitely something _highly_ like Snow coming off this body, and it takes a moment to place it as her perfume. Which is disturbing, it’s disturbing because whoever this woman is wanted not just to look like Snow, but be able to utterly impersonate her. Or whoever glamoured her did. Though then it comes back to the track marks- a good glamour should be hiding that up.

 _Conspiracy_ , the suspicious corners of his mind whisper and Bigby rolls his eyes internally, because even the non-suspicious part of him is firmly banked on conspiracy now, so he could do without the reminders constantly.

Still, he points out the track marks as perfunctorily as he can. More to make them known than any question, but Snow still startles back, shocked and possibly offended.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Snow shakes out, folding her arms, and Bigby nods fervently. Trying to make it clear that he was never accusing her.

He goes to examine a brooch laying on the woman’s coat next, old looking- as in _old_ like them looking- and also something that he’s definitely never seen Snow wear. It’s one of the first things that Bigby can pin down as definitely belonging to this woman, and it’s something hopefully unique. Maybe it can give them some clues as to her identity.

He holds it up to show it to Snow, just in case she recognises it, or maybe it turns out it’s something she owns, but never wears. But she seems just as ignorant of its existence as Bigby was.

“I don’t wear a broach like that,” Snow confirms for him, shaking her head.

Bigby nods and pulls out his piece of paper to start noting down the rest of his information, and some of his thoughts surrounding each clue. Then it can go in the evidence box and people can read his insights and he’ll never have to say them.

Snow’s taken the brooch off him to show it to Bufkin, who also furrows his brow and looks up helplessly at Bigby. Which is great, because if Bufkin doesn’t know anything about it then Bigby has no idea how they’re supposed to use it to try and find anyone.

Just great. It’s feeling more and more like an impossible hill to climb.

“If the glamour is supposed to make her look like me,” Snow speaks up slowly, “Shouldn’t it be concealing things like track marks?” She sounds thoughtful, but confused.

Bigby nods, because that’s what he’s been thinking, it looks like it’s failing, or like it’s _cheap_ and shoddy. Like all the things that Glamours are not, because that’s why they’re so expensive that Bigby has to go and shout at Toad periodically.

Conspiracy, his brain singsongs, then more accurately. _Glamour_ Conspiracies. Perhaps a black market if you will- though Bigby doesn’t want to be getting ahead of himself.

Next to him, Snow is echoing his own thoughts as she talks to Bufkin.

“It’s not _technically_ , illegal, Miss.” Bufkin pipes up- with the authority of someone who spends a _lot_ of time looking for loopholes to exploit- and Bigby once again has to refrain from rolling his eyes.

The issue there, is the “ _technically_ ”, Bufkin, he thinks sardonically. But it fits with his ideas of black market glamours. Black market glamours for a probably prostitute, black market glamours to look like other fables, and he suddenly feels very sick.

Maybe they just glamoured her before they killed her, as some kind of message or shout for help or cruel trick. Maybe that would explain the lack of care for the body.

He _hopes_ so, and he hopes this is the first time.

Except Bigby’s not naïve enough to believe that.

Black market glamours to look like other fables, and enough care taken to _smell_ like them too. His skin itches and crawls.

He wants to tell Snow, tell her he’s worried and share his concern. But the thing is, even if he had his words Bigby’s not sure how he’d do it. For once there aren’t a barrage of words shut behind his throat trying to get out as his frustration mounts at his fucking uselessness. Now he’s just got something he knows he needs to say, but no idea how to say it.

Snow points out the discrepancy of the buttons, three on Snow’s coat, four on the other woman’s. Maybe that’s an invitation, or a sigh, or tacit permission for Bigby to open her coat and start examining but…

Bigby knows he shouldn’t care so much because she’s dead. Because he wants to find a _murderer_. But it feels so _wrong_ to undress the woman in front of his, and Snow’s and Bufkin’s eyes. Especially when she looks so like Snow, it feels like an invasion of multiple people’s privacy, and he’s more than happy to put this off for as long as he fucking can.

Instead, Bigby goes to her fists which are tightly clenched shut as if she’d been grabbing onto something before she’d died. Rigor mortis has set in, and Bigby can’t open her first. Or rather he can’t open the woman’s fist with a _regular_ degree of strength an no damage done.

He glances up at Snow, question written across his face, trying to keep himself flat, and calm, but desperate. Let her know that he thinks this is needed. She lets out a hesitant nod, and Bigby takes that as his cue.

The sounds of bones snapping rings out as he prises her fist apart, one finger at a time. He reminds himself to make sure he notes this down in the report- that the broken fingers were a result of the autopsy, and _not_ a result of the murder.

Purple petals-lilacs- lie in her fist, and try as he might, Bigby can’t think of any reason for the woman to have wanted to hold on to them so _badly_.

Which means she was probably just holding them, and then whoever did this caught her by surprise and cut her head off. And she wouldn’t have known, maybe she was sleeping, maybe she was just enjoying being alone. He thins his lips and writes this down in his notes anyway.

There’s nothing else he can see now, nothing on the exposed skin of her body, it’s just the jacket with the buttons, which probably has pockets containing more clues at the very least. It does make him feel any less shit, undressing a dead woman.

He moves his hand to buttons of the woman’s coat and then stops, hand hovering over it. No.

He looks up at Snow, tired but resolute, he’s asking for permission in his gaze. Maybe if she wasn’t here, but he’s not about to potentially strip this woman who’s taken Snow’s appearance right in front of her. If he can’t give any dignity to the dead woman anymore- because someone had taken that- then he can at least try and give some to Snow.

“What?” Snow asks him defensive and confused after he’s been staring at her for maybe a little too long, trying to get her to understand. He’s _very_ aware of Bufkin on the other side of the table, who knows that Bigby can’t speak. He wonders if Bufkin is judging him, or worse _pitying_ him at this very moment.

He shifts his eyes down the woman’s coat, and then back up to Snow trying to look as apologetic as he can. But he needs to do this, and maybe she can walk away, or she can stay. Whatever makes her more comfortable, and he wants her to know that he’s not trying to be a _creep_ , but two women are dead. Two women are dead and Bigby’s job is to protect the fables and he needs to fucking do it.

Snow bristles under his gaze and Bigby just keeps looking straight at her, pleading and eventually Snow acquiesces.

“Here,” she intones bluntly, moving to unbutton the woman’s coat herself. Her slender fingers unbutton it with practiced ease- which makes sense. Considering it’s pretty much her coat, extra button or not.

Under her coat her shirt is half unbuttoned, ripped open or simply not done up again, Bigby can’t tell from this far away. Her skin is mottled with death and river water, and a sliver of purple underwear pokes up against her up and out of her skirt.

Beside him he can feel tension radiating off of Snow in waves and he decides to look through the pockets first. Give her more time- and get more info- before deciding whether to look underneath the woman’s shirt or skirt.

The woman, because he doesn’t know her name. It’s even worse than with Faith- because at least he’d known her _face_ , instead there’s a dead woman here and he knows nothing about her. He wonders how many other fables have just slipped through the cracks.

Lawrence nearly did for one.

But Snow is still so uncomfortable, and he stares up at her assessing the furrow of her brow, the slightly distant look in her eyes like she’s somewhere else. Somewhere very not here. His tongue feels like a deadweight in his mouth as he longs to try and comfort her, or reassure her, or just fucking talk.

He keeps staring up at her, trying to give Snow the power to take the lead, go through the pockets or-

He whirls around and Snow is just behind him, the echoing of footsteps approaching them. This is another reason he hates the witching well. The rain makes it so fucking _hard_ to determine when someone is coming, makes it harder for him to smell them.

Crane is shuffling towards them like he is _needed_ , or welcome. This is sheriff business, and there is no need for the mayor. It’s not _political_ , it’s people’s lives.

Fuck off you old git, he thinks and scowls.

“Sorry, that, uh, took longer than expected,” Crane apologises to them guiltily- as if Bigby _cares_. “What have you found out?”

Bigby sees Crane’s eyes drift down to the body as he asks that, and he’s not sure, but he’s pretty sure as he watches Crane’s eyes sweep around that they linger on the woman’s hip, bulging for just a moment.

Bigby wants him out of here, and he can’t even begin to imagine how bad it is for Snow. Snow, who stalks back off to the other side of the table, a clear gesture to get away from Crane.

Bigby pins him with a look, tries to get him to see that he better fucking _behave_. Except that Crane’s always seen him as an animal and a dumb brute. He’s definitely never tried to fucking understand Bigby, clearly alternates between viewing Bigby’s silence as some kind of mindlessness or insubordination.

If Bigby had any choice in the matter, he wouldn’t be insubordinate to Crane by being _silent_.

“Well, get on with it then!” Crane huffs at them, like Bigby isn’t running off of negative sleep and had been doing his job perfectly fine _before_ Crane arrived. The pen and paper feel like lead weights in his pocket now, he doesn’t want Crane to see him writing stuff down. Writing stuff down and not saying a word. Bigby’s fingers twitch.

“We can’t waste too much time here. The killer might be preparing another attack as we speak,” Crane says dismissively.

Bigby bites down a snarl, because Crane will just see it as him being an _animal_ , and he’s not. He doesn’t have time for this shit, not to fight with his boss over the body of a dead woman, fucking useless creepy prick or not. Instead Bigby clenches his jaw at the insinuation that treating a dead body with some fucking respect, and being _thorough_ in his search for clues is a waste of time.

_She was a person, Crane!_ He wants to tell the man as she shakes him. Though there is some truth in that the killer might kill again.

He scrunches his eyes shut, just for a moment. He can’t let anyone down again. Not another fable, slipping through the cracks because nobody cared until it was too late.

Like Faith, like this woman, like Lawrence, like Holly’s sister- Lily? He swears to himself, the next off moment he gets he is going to try and make some progress.

Missing for _weeks_ Gren had said. So why hadn’t _he_ heard of it until he’d gone to the Trip Trap? He was the fucking Sheriff? Surely this was _his_ job.

 **Of course they go to Snow and Crane. You’re fucking _useless_ , stupid mangy dog you**-

He shakes his head and bites his tongue. He doesn’t have _time_ for this right now. He needs to finish this investigation and just try and ignore the looming spectre of Crane over his shoulder as much as he can.

He’d ask about the lingerie- but he already knows the clothes aren’t exact, the mismatched buttons had proved that, and Snow’s underwear isn’t something he _needs_ to know. Especially not with Crane here, lingering like an unwanted mould, with an air of intrigue that’s making _Bigby_ uncomfortable. He kind of wishes he’d gone for looking at the body first now. Just so she could be buttoned up by the time Crane had arrived.

Reaching into the first of the pockets on the coat, Bigby withdraws a perfume bottle- the same type he’s seen on Snow’s desk, and even if he hadn’t he’d be able to recognise that it smells the same. Because his nose, is some nose, sometimes he jokes that it makes up for his inability to talk- his inability to smell. Someone had placed a label on it.

 _Use this_.

His stomach sinks, because this all but confirms what he had suspected but not wanted to believe- that this woman had been told to glamour herself by somebody. And considering that Faith was a prostitute, and the hint of lingerie he can see poking out of her skirt….

Someone is giving out black market glamours to prostitutes to look like other fables. Conspiracy is all around them and Bigby wonders how many signs he’s missed over the years. People think women like Faith, and this woman (and Bigby doesn’t even know her _name_ ) are expendable.

They’re _not_ , no one is expendable. Not even Crane- that fucker’s just a waste of _space_.

He throws the bottle to Snow, so that she can see its her own, and watches as her eyes widen.

“It’s my perfume?” she trails off as if unsure of her statement and Bigby nods, watches as Snow tries to pull herself back together. “So someone gave her… instructions?”

Bigby nods once and thins his lips, because it certainly looks that way. It’s not a pleasant thought.

The other pocket contains a creamy but delicate tube. It looks old- like the brooch, and there’s that weird smell that Bigby’s never quite worked out how to describe.

“I’ve seen things like this before,” Snow speaks up as Bigby holds out the tube. “It’s definitely magic, but witches don’t usually craft objects these days.”

Yet another fucking mystery he supposes, as he turns it over in his hand.

“I don’t think it’s wise to fool around with that!” Crane suddenly interrupts, sounding freaked and panicked. Coward. _Conspiracy_. Bigby is just wondering if maybe he _should_ pay that thought some mind when-

“It’s some kind of black market magic. Who knows what it could do?” Crane continues with such deep disgust that Bigby just thinks _prick_ , and _coward_ , and feels an extra urge to investigate it.

It’s a tube, what could it do? It’ll be what’s inside that’s of any danger.

“We should have it looked at- just to make sure it isn’t dangerous,” and Crane is tripping over his words so frantically that all the hackles on Bigby’s back are rising. Because he’s not sure _why_ , but he’s pretty sure that Crane doesn’t want him looking at this. Doesn’t want him looking at something that could help them with a murder case.

Why? Because Crane doesn’t want the popularity of dead prostitutes hitting Fables’ ears? That doesn’t quite fit.

He turns to look at the man, showing him just how little he approves of Crane’s interruptions, but also to try and get a better read on him. Try and work out what it is that he’s not saying.

Bigby still can’t suss him out, it’s the same slimy creepiness as ever, and he decides to just keep an eye on him. In the meantime Bigby is going to try and open this tube right here and now.

Presumably it’s some kind of pattern, twisting rings to form some sort of design, he fiddles around with it, taking probably too much joy in Crane’s nervous breathing, and almost allows himself to be lulled by the gentle twisting of the tube.

When the image of a white deer is seen across the tube the top of the tube pops open, and shaking it out reveals a lock of hair and scrunched up photograph.

A barely audible sniff reveals it’s Snow’s. A glamour tube. With Snow’s hair.

Panic floods him, panic on behalf of _Snow_ \- because someone had gotten close enough to her to take a _lock_ of her hair without her noticing. Not just a few strands on a hairbrush or in a drain, but a lock. Like it had been cut.

Two women are dead, Lily is missing, and Snow has a stalker.

What kind of fucking Sheriff is _he_?

What kind of _person_ is he?

He’s a piece of shit. **You’re a piece of shit.**

 **You’re a piece of shit!** The voice in his head taunts, and Bigby clenches his fists until his knuckles whiten, stepping away from the table- presumably to let Snow see- but really to try and get a hold of himself.

 **You’re a piece of _shit_. Now do your fucking job, dog**.

“Is- is that _my_ hair?” Snow asks shakily, having stepped forward to pick it up from the table. She sounds sick, Bigby agrees.

**Oh, you agree do you? Be _helpful_ , bitch.**

Bigby squeezes his fists slowly shut and then opens them again, focusing on one of the many pillars in the chamber. He needs to keep his head; he has a job. Not _now_.

Trying to take charge again, Bigby goes to unroll the photograph. It shows a smiling Snow, and the shoulder of another person- clearly ripped out of the photograph.

The only benefit Bigby can think of is at least it looks like Snow agreed to this picture being taken. Except then it brings up the question of how did someone _get_ it?

Something to ask Snow later, except he’s too _useless_ and he doesn’t want to mollycoddle her and he doesn’t have the _words_.

“Someone must have taken this from my apartment,” Snow tells him as she takes the photograph off of him. She begins to pace around the chamber.

“I noticed it was missing, but I didn’t think…” Her confused tone suddenly changes into something much more _angry_. “This was the last picture I had of Rose and me. My sister and I don’t talk much anymore.”

Bigby tries to look reassuring but equally he’s assessing, trying to figure it all out.

“Who did this, Bigby?” Snow asks quietly, as if she doesn’t want Crane to overhear.

And that’s the thing. He doesn’t know. Because he’s been letting people slip through the cracks, so concentrated on trying to help people and just _missing_ them. He _tries_. He tries to be good and to be kind and to make sure people know that they can come to him. He tries to make sure that when he’s sent (like a _dog, a hammer_ ) to break up fights that the other person doesn’t leave too much worse than him. That they don’t leave hurt at all, but everyone only seems to want one thing out of him.

 _Violence_.

Bigby took this job to try and _stop_ the violence- and he keeps it, even though he thinks he might not be well suited- because people think he has this job for the violence. Which means they don’t understand what the job _is_ , and he couldn’t’ let someone like _Bluebeard,_ have this job. Not in good conscience, Bluebeard who wouldn’t’ care about a dead woman beyond political points and where he could get fucking _tips_. Maybe beyond the thrill of knocking someone’s teeth in.

Bigby doesn’t want to solve this to get violent retribution on a killer. He wants to solve this to get justice for Faith and this woman. Because Faith saw something in him maybe, and then she _died_ , and god knows Bigby wants her to have been right.

He’s thrown out of his musings by a sickly green light suddenly cast over their faces. When he turns around the body on the slab is no longer the same as Snow’s- it clearly belongs to a Troll.

The only troll he can think of is Holly (Holly of the missing sister) and he prays he’s wrong so that there’s one person he can save. Prays he’s _right_ so at least he hasn’t let _another_ woman down. Feels sickened that he is trying to _choose_.

“She’s a troll?!” Bufkin shrieks, voicing the thought on all of their minds.

“You’ve got to be _kidding_ me,” Crane groans- like this somehow makes her any _less_ worthy of their care or attention. Like the _human_ fables are the only ones worth caring about. Maybe it’s because Bigby’s not _really_ human, but he’s always hated that attitude. He’s never not cared about Toad because he’s a _Toad_ , just because he’s a right prick.

 _So what?_ Bigby wants to snarl at Crane, _Why do you sound so_ disgusted _you fucking prick. She was murdered, show some fucking respect!_

But he can’t, so he cricks his neck a little and looks to Snow. Snow who knows most of the fables- or at least the fables of a _certain_ group to see if she recognises the woman.

“Who is she?” Snow asks, sounding utterly defeated, so no hope there then, Bigby guesses.

Crane just looks utterly disgusted, piece of fucking shite.

That’s when Snow calls attention to a newly formed tattoo on the woman’s ankle. A tattoo in the form of a Lily.

It seems pretty concrete now. They do say that most missing persons cases show up dead, or not at all the longer they’re missing. And it sounds like Lily’s been missing for a while.

(Why did they never come to _him_? Why did he only hear about it from a disgruntled Gren, waiting in line for an appointment with _Crane?_ )

Snow asks him who he thinks the woman is, and he gestures at the tattoo, but Snow doesn’t seem to get it. All they are rewarded too is some more _charming_ absolutely shitty behaviour and attitude from Crane. Holly’s thrice the person Crane is, and god knows Lily probably was too.

(Bigby had done worse shit than most trolls.)

Then, after staring at her face, Snow seems to have an epiphany.

“Oh shit, Holly’s sister Lilly.” She turns to him horror and sadness on her face. “She was reported missing, but I… I guess she just fell through the cracks.”

Why was it never reported to _me_ , he wants to spit. This is his fucking _job_ , why didn’t he _know_ until yesterday morning when she was probably already dead.

They should talk to Holly, Bigby thinks. At the very least to inform Holly about her sister, if not to try and gather some kind of information about her- what she was doing, who she was seeing. That kind of thing.

He waves and starts walking off to try and signal that this interrogation is over. His pen and paper are burning a lead weight in his pocket and he knows that he needs to fill in the details.

But when Snow tries to follow him, he hears Crane speak up and Bigby whips around.

“It’s too dangerous,” Crane tells Snow patronisingly, “Someone tried to kill you.” Then he turns to BIgby, like he thinks he can drag Bigby into this- like he’d agree.

What Bigby does or doesn’t want for Snow is immaterial, it’s up to _her_. And sure, Bigby would like to talk with her, make sure she’s fully aware of the risks and is _safe_ , but she’s not a child. They can’t just lock her up in a room.

Besides, Bigby is pretty certain the murderer wasn’t trying to kill _Snow_. He doesn’t _know_ if Lily was a prostitute, but he knows prostitutes are the kind of people who tend to slip through cracks. Snow would have been missed. Lily and Faith wouldn’t if someone hadn’t deliberately drawn Bigby’s attention towards them.

“You can’t _let_ her do this Bigby,” Crane beseeches, “You’d be putting her life at risk.” He’s wheedly and creepy and a slime, and especially compared to how little Crane had cared about Lily’s death once she was a troll….

He scoffs.

“Bigby is not in charge of me!” Snow shouts at Crane, and he nods behind her for emphasis- maybe _that_ will get it through Crane’s thick misogynistic skull.

“He’s in charge of this investigation!” Crane shoots back, like he’d ever given a shit when he didn’t need to _use_ Bigby for something. When he wasn’t just a hammer to be wielded.

Besides, it’s not the same thing.

Snow echoes his words just as Bigby is thinking them.

“Anyway, we should get going,” Snow finishes up, turning back to him where he’s standing with his arms folded and scowling at Crane.

Bigby shoots Crane one last irritated look before striding out of the Witching Well chamber and the damp with Snow.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's really short, sorry, because I decided to split it from the actual game content.  
> Also Colin is a bro and Bigby and Colin should probably admit that instead of pretending they only tolerate each other.

He needs to tell Holly about her sister, and it’s a murder case so he should be working fast, but _honestly_ , Lily’s been missing for god knows how long- he should _know_ \- and how much difference is ten or twenty minutes longer gonna make?

He waves Snow off and heads back to his apartment to finish up his notes and maybe get a fucking drink, splash some water on his face. Maybe he’ll change his shirt as well.

It’s all a way to stall the inevitable, the problem of trying to inform Holly that Lily has died when he can’t _speak_.

“I want to eat a _fucking_ chicken,” he calls out irritated, as he swings open the door to his apartment. It’s not really what he wants to say- something more about Crane’s _waste of existence_ would be more ideal, but it conveys the sentiment well enough. But eh, Crane can be a chicken, and eat can be a metaphor for kick.

“Well look who finally came crawling home,” Colin calls, trotting out of the bathroom. “And as long as it’s not a pig- I know you, you fucker,” the pink menace snorts, coming fully into view.

Bigby wrinkles his nose and waves his hand before opening the wardrobe and extracting yet another white (well ish) shirt.

“Oh, you didn’t mean that _literally_ ,” Colin drawls, “One of those days huh? Well, I’m certainly glad I’m not the… _chicken_ in this scenario.”

Bigby rolls his eyes, not that Colin can likely see it behind the closet door and focuses on buttoning up his shirt before turning his attention to his tie.

“ _Look_ ,” Colin says, following Bigby into the kitchenette as he runs the tap to finally get a fucking drink and stop his eyes being so damned _dry_.

“I know we’re fables, and you’re like- better than the rest of us, or just built different or some shit-” Colin’s tone makes it pretty clear what the pig thinks of that, so Bigby flips him off without looking at him.

“Charming. This is why we love you so much. _No_ ,” Colin picks up again, “You’ve been up for what- a day? Two? _Three?_ And I-“

Bigby can’t be assed to listen to this shit, and he’s got nowhere to write in here. And Colin’s got big fucking eyes. He can finish writing his notes in his office. Downing the last of the water he walks back out of the kitchenette.

“-stop fucking moving around! We don’t all have your long fucking legs,” Colin complains, “Are you _seriously_ going out _again_ right now?”

Bigby turns back to him and nods, not halting in his walk to the door.

“You know what?” Colin huffs again, and Bigby doesn’t but he’s sure Colin will enlighten him. “Fuck it, do try and be back soon before you _drop_. I’ll even vacate your chair for your almighty backside.”

Bigby’s on the other side of the door now, and he knows how they play this game, so he gives Colin an overly jaunty wave that he does not feel, before slamming the door shut behind him. A loud “Dickhead!” echoes through the walls of his apartment and Bigby rubs his head.

Okay, okay, to his office he goes.

///////////

It doesn’t take long to finish summarising his findings on the body, he’s just finishing up when he pauses, pencil tapping against the paper. He pulls out a _fresh_ piece of paper and copies out everything he’d jotted down, and then adds some stuff. About Crane being very _weird_ (… _conspiracy…_ ) about the tube, and just the whole thing really. Stuff he wouldn’t want possibly coming under Crane’s eyes. Then on a _third_ piece of paper he writes out a brief summary of his side of things about Tweedle Dee’s interrogation and Bluebeard’s most recent foray into assault.

Then he just sits at his desk and breathes for a bit. Wonders if Snow would find it _patronising_ if he wrote out a list of things to ask Holly. Whatever, it’s a stupid question anyway.

He stands up on legs that would rather resist and wanders down the strangely empty corridor to the business office, planning to drop off his bits of paper on Snow’s desk. (Not the one with the stuff about Crane though- that one is for _his_ notes, in the _Sheriff’s_ office.

Neither Crane nor Snow are anywhere to be seen, so Bigby places his paper on the desk, and then thumps it a few times to get Bufkin’s attention. Soon enough the green monkey flies over. Once Bigby is sure he’s being looked at he snaps his fingers and points between Bufkin, the paper, and Snow’s nameplate.

“Uh, should I put it in the evidence box, Mr Wolf?” Bufkin asks after a while of fidgeting awkwardly. Bigby shakes his head and glares at the monkey (though it’s not _his_ fault Bigby is so useless it still rankles that he _knows_ ) and gestures at Snow’s desk once more.

“Oh, I’ll make sure it doesn’t get… _lost_ Mr Wolf,” Bufkin says, looking at Crane’s desk a little as he does so. Bigby nods once, and then he walks out, the beating sound of Bufkin’s wings behind him.

///////////

He bumps into Snow exiting the lobby of the Woodlands just as he is himself.

“Oh,” Snow calls, “Are you just going to talk to Holly now?” Snow asks him, “I thought you’d already gone and I’d missed you,” she clarifies.

Bigby nods and gestures at the door.

“Do you… I think I should come with you,” Snow tells him, “Because it’s me Gren and Holly have been dealing with about Lily’s case.”

(It feels a little bit like salvation, this encountering Snow. Because he actually doesn’t know what he would have done otherwise. Written: _I’m sorry, your sister is dead_ , and slipped it over to Holly?)

He also feels a bit useless ( _very_ ) because why were Holly and Gren dealing with _Snow?_ This isn’t even Snow’s job but sometimes he thinks she does it better than him. Except that Snow can’t (as in willing, because she can look after herself) deal in violence. And that’s the only currency a lot of fables are willing to trade in. Bigby’s very familiar with it.

He nods emphatically to show it’s no problem with him and runs his hand through his hair as he walks out. He’s distantly amused to see Snow doing the same thing.

They don’t speak at all in the cab (not that Bigby does anyway), the bone deep exhaustion clear in both of them.

Bigby can sleep when this is done. He shoves down the voice that sounds like _Colin_ of all people telling him to rest before he drops. He can’t take breaks, not when there are lives involved.


	15. Chapter 15

The Trip Trap is just as silent as ever- the jaunty music and Gren’s whining are the only sounds that Bigby’s ever heard. No regular customers, though maybe that’s just the time- no general hubbub and chatter.

And speaking of Gren…

“This whole thing is complete bullshit and always has been. I mean, what’s his job, really?” He hears Gren saying, probably speaking to Holly.

“To keep shit from reaching the Woodlands,” Holly calls back as dry as ever.

At first Bigby’s instinct is to stiffen up- because that’s not his job and that’s _not_ how he sees it.

But that’s not what matters. What matters is this is how _they_ see it, how the fables who aren’t rich enough or important enough or housed at the Woodlands see him and his job. They seem him just as an angry hammer to come and cause violence whenever Crane swings him their way.

Because when’s the last time Bigby showed up just to _talk_? When was the last time Bigby was asked to come _anywhere_ other than to break up a fight. Not to help someone involved, but to punish whoever did that.

Bigby’s job is not about punishing the guilty. It’s about protecting the innocent- and he has _failed_. So he has to do the next best thing, make sure it won’t happen again.

There’s more chatter between Holly and some kid- Jack. It seems just like a normal day for Holly, and now here are Snow and him coming to break it. Still there’s a job to be done and Holly’s going to take softness from Bigby as patronising.

He grinds out his cigarette under his heel, and waits for the other occupants of the bar to realise he’s arrived.

“C’mon Holly, I need entertainment” Jack wheedles, oblivious to the atmosphere the bar has taken and the twin scowls on Holly and Gren, eventually it clearly hits him though.

“This’ll do,” Jack turns, sounding thoroughly amused and Bigby manfully resists the urge to flip him off.

Bigby is not a lapdog who runs when told to, he won’t do _tricks_ for you if you give him treats. He’s not a dog to be baited into violence with a stick so that people can watch him tear into others.

_He’s not a fucking animal and he doesn’t exist for other people’s entertainment_.

Still, it doesn’t mean he relishes in the uncomfortable- _scared_ – glances Holly and Gren give each other, and he doesn’t miss Holly hastily stowing glasses back below the counter.

He doesn’t want to fight; he has _never_ come here looking for a fight and he had fucking _tried_ to avoid one last time. It’s like a punch in the gut, even though he knows, this is how they see him, this is how they always see him.

He stares back at Holly and even if he had words he wouldn’t know what to say. Here he is, the Sheriff of Fabletown and good people get nervous at his arrival. How fucking sobering.

It’s like a standoff of sorts, no one wants to speak first- and Snow seems to think that Bigby should take the lead except that that’s _never_ going to happen.

“Miss White,” Jack speaks up at last, with the tone of a professional shit stirrer, “I heard you had kind of a strange morning…”

Bigby scowls at him, but Snow just calmly deflects with a shrug- it had been strange enough for them all, hadn’t it?

Of course, deflection wasn’t going to satisfy Jack- he was _bored_ after all, he wanted _entertainment_. Of course, everything had to be more complicated than was needed.

So Jack, in an example of a shocking lack of self-preservation (except not really but people don’t act like that) _drapes_ his arm over Bigby’s shoulders.

It’s like he can feel every hair on his body stand up to attention, and in a exercise of restraint he’s rather proud of he doesn’t shove Jack away or even try to shrug him off. Instead he holds himself so perfectly still that it almost hurts, holds his breath and counts backwards from twenty-seven.

Lily is dead and Bigby doesn’t want to start shit- doesn’t want to give Gren a reason to think he wants to start shit either.

Jack’s still prattling on, about how Bigby’s losing weight and keeping muscle and fucking _shit_. _Colin_ would have some pretty choice words about that. About how _wasn’t it a shame_ that Bigby didn’t have any poor innocent pigs to terrorise anymore, but that wasn’t a reason to never come home and eat, or sleep, or pay tribute to Colin’s shrine or some shit. It’s not like Bigby’s really got any food in his fridge anyway, and Colin’s probably scarfed the leftover Chinese- why come home when home has shit?

It’s also kind of almost amusing just how either oblivious or uncaring Jack is to the palpable tension in the room. Bigby doesn’t want this shit, it’s pretty clear that Holly and Gren don’t’ either, why the fuck Jack is playing this game Bigby has no clue.

“You know we were just talking about you- all of us. At the bar, here, about you.” Jack continues undeterred, even after Bigby shakes himself free. He doesn’t like the sound of that. Doesn’t like the idea that he exists in minds when he’s not there, and knowing… well knowing everything he does he doubts it was particularity flattering.

(Not that he deserves flattery)

“I’m _dying_ to hear about the body that came out of the East River this morning. It was a fable right?” and how the fuck is Jack still talking? How is he talking so much and so easily, and so _uncaring_. Bigby digs his fingers into his palms and tries not to focus on the unfairness.

Snow shoots both him and Jack a shocked look and Bigby just squeezes his eyes open and shut. Because of _course_ there’s no way that would have stayed quiet. Toad, Bluebeard and the Tweedle all have big mouths. Crane’s got a loose flappy one- which is how Bluebeard got dragged into this mess in the first place.

“Oh everyone knows,” Jack says with a smirk, clearly meant to be mysterious and rile him up. Bigby stares impassively back, trying to convey how little he cares- though he does- to get Jack to break his stupid game.

“Tweedledee was just here,” Gren cuts in, clearly about as fed up with Jack’s bullshit as Bigby is. He doesn’t smirk at Jack’s clear annoyance of being shot down.

And _of course_. Because the first interrogation was _over_ \- even though it was just cut short- so why _wouldn’t_ Crane (or Bluebeard, but this has Crane’s weaselly fingers written all over it) set the clearly incredibly fucking suspicious man free.

Without even telling Bigby. You know, the appointed sheriff. Because that’s what he is- they _chose_ for him to have this job, and he doesn’t seen anybody clamouring to take over for all the shit they talk.

“He said it looked like Snow White,” Jack interjects into the silence once more.

“Right,” Snow says flatly while Bigby blinks irritatedly. And yet, somehow Jack just doesn’t know when to quit it.

“Tweedledee said you arrested him for no earthly reason, kept him locked in the cellar all fucking night. He said you tortured him,” and Jack’s face takes on an expression, which could maybe actually be genuinely and not just all the performative bullshit that’s been happening so far.

Also that’s just brilliant, that the whole thing’s getting out. Not that Bigby wanted to _supress_ it- because that would be all kinds of fucked up in the ways that Bigby never wants to be. But- Bigby had really wanted more time to try and sort this out release his official statement, have Snow read over it. Not having the Tweedle come out and try and pin the realities of his very real rough interrogation in Bigby when it had all been Bluebeard.

And they believe it all so easily. This is what they think he is and he’s too _useless_ to be able to refute it.

“That seems like a breach of your legislative duties,” Jack finishes up slowly.

And-

 _No fucking shit_. Because Bigby doesn’t torture people- he never has and he never _will_. Bigby doesn’t the Wolf hadn’t. That’s an entirely different level of fucked up that he’s never ever thought about doing.

In the homelands Bigby ate some people and tried to eat some pigs because he was a wolf and he was hungry. (He ate some real shitbags back then too, but that was because there was no justice. You had to make your own) And it was wrong- he knows that and he knows people have their grudges even if this was _supposed_ to be a new chance. But Bluebeard- he killed multiple women and got off on it, and he continues to do the same shit but in “acceptable” ways.

Yet ask your average fable and _Bigby’s_ the monster.

Jack’s walking towards him, asking if Bigby’s _dumb_ and he raises an eyebrow. It’s his way of asking if Jack _really_ wants to go there, really wants to antagonise the man he thinks is a _torturer?_

But finally it seems like someone else has had enough. Holly tells him to shut it and Bigby shoots her a grateful look that she ignores.

But Jack’s stupidity still knows no bounds, a pissed off Bigby, a pissed off Holly- why shouldn’t Jack keep talking? Moron.

“What is it with you two?” Jack needles, missing all cues, “You are Gren are all `lets get a posse together,` when there’s no one around, but as soon as the Big Bad Wolf walks in your tails go between your legs,” Jack gets all up in Bigby’s space again, and he can’t do this. He snarls, because he doesn’t want Jack near him, and he doesn’t want a fight, and he really doesn’t want Holly and Gren all riled up.

“Cat got your never? What happened?” Jack taunts and with each new piece of useless shit Jack says it’s feeling less and less like the time to break the news to Holly. He can feel Snow’s awkwardness behind him and he’s not sure how to make it clear to her that she should take the lead.

“I’m sick and tired of trouble Jack, I don’t want anymore,” and Holly really sounds it. Her sister is missing, Bigby’s trashed her bar and now he’s back like a ghost. He can’t blame her, it’s his fault that everything has degenerated into this mess anyway.

“So just stop revving his motor or wait outside or fuck the hell off. I don’t’ care which” Holly finishes before leaning back on the bar.

You could rev his motor all day long. You could do it all day and Bigby will probably _hate_ you and he won’t forget it but he won’t snap. He’s not like that.

“Bigby, look,” Jack tells him instead of fucking off, all fake concerned, “Two fables are dead and Gren’s sister-“

“- _Holly’s_ sister.” Gren interjects, barely looking up.

Bigby takes a step forwards and attempts to pin Jack with his gaze. Does Jack think he doesn’t know? Doesn’t care? At least Bigby knows whose sister Lily was.

“Holly’s sister has been missing for, what, a few days now? And we haven’t heard one word about it from anyone.”

Bigby closes his eyes, because of course _now_ is when this has to be brought up. And Bigby doesn’t want to cast blame because it’s not fair or appropriate, but why didn’t they come to _him_? Why didn’t they tell _him_?

Maybe Holly sees something on his face, or Snow’s face, or maybe she’s just that desperate.

“Actually, have there been any updates?” Holly asks, avoiding his eyes like she’s scared about what she’ll see in there.

Bigby stares back at her, lets her draw her conclusions from his empty eyes and lack of response. Let her and Gren draw out what they already know from his silence.

“Oh shit,” Gren says, oddly subdued for how Bigby thought he’d react. “The body you found…” he stops, clearly not wanting to say it.

Quick as a whip Holly turns to him, “Who was it?” she asks, and Bigby just shakes his head because she _knows_ , she knows it’s Lily but she just doesn’t want it to be true.

“I’m sorry Holly, it was Lily,” Snow replies, speaking up at last. Bigby averts his eyes as Holly turns away to give her some privacy.

“Oh I sure walked into that one,” Jack mutters, still as fucking tone death and oblivious as ever. Bigby is actually beginning to wonder if Jack is just truly this oblivious as opposed to a dick who’s committed to stirring shit.

“If you say one more fucking thing,” Gren growls, “Just one more thing…” the man trails off leaving it there, but it seems that finally Jack has got the message- that maybe if Bigby won’t pick a fight that Gren _will_ and the twat finally walks off with a shrug.

But with Jack gone it only makes sense that Bigby comes the sole target of Gren’s anger and grief.

“God fucking damnit. Of course, the dear princess Snow fucking white is all safe and sound!” the fable snarls.

Bigby shifts slightly, because grief is irrational but this has _nothing_ to do with Snow and he doesn’t want Gren going off at her either. Snow for her part says nothing either, just stands there and lets Gren work through his grief.

“Where were you when we reported this weeks ago, huh? Where are you when we ever fucking need you?!”

A telephone call away, Bigby wants to say. Except that’s not true because Bigby doesn’t _have_ a phone in his office for- well for fucking obvious reasons really- so you call the business office, and if you get Snow, she’ll pass it on. If you get Crane…

He thinks about Bufkin’s lingering glance on Crane’s desk while assuring Bigby nothing would get _lost_.

But equally he _is_ a call away, because that’s how Toad gets afuckinghold of him.

He wants to be there for people- for all the people and especially not just the Woodlands- but he can’t do _shit_ if nobody ever comes to him.

But how much of that is on him? When did everyone just stop coming? Is it because he just stares at you as people pour out their most vulnerable moments?

Bigby feels his eyes tighten as Gren keeps shouting.

“If you’d ever given one ounce of a shit about her, about any of us, she might’ve been saved! She might’ve been cared for! She might’ve been-“

Gren’s rant is cut off by the shattering of glass.

One by one their eyes swing to Holly, hunched over the bar a broken bottle and tumbler by each hand. Guilty silence pervades the air as they wait for Holly to say or do anything.

“Holly?” Snow asks after a while, first to break the truce.

“Get the fuck out of my bar,” Holly bites back, but without any of the venom Bigby would have expected. “It should have been you. It should have been you and it wasn’t.”

Bigby strolls over, not sure what to do, but just feeling like he should be there. He _does_ know that attempting to point out that they probably _weren’t_ after Snow because they were probably targeting vulnerable or at-risk women and Snow wasn’t one wouldn’t help.

It would just prove a point if anything. That Bigby’s let down anyone who isn’t at the Woodlands.

Snow eyes him pointedly, jerking her head towards Holly, but it’s not like Bigby can _say_ anything, so he shakes his head and gestures for Snow to go first.

He watches as Snow gives Holly the brooch they’d found on Lilly and Holly seems to almost soften as she stares at it. Something about better times.

“Gren?” Holly speaks up, sounding far calmer, but also far more melancholic than before.

“Yeah,” the man responds slowly but gently, and it’s obvious how much he cares.

“Take off for a bit, would ya.” Holly says, still focused on the brooch.

“Are you _sure?_ ” Gren asks, with a bit of emphasis on the words that Bigby tries not to resent.

After some significant looks and a bit more drawn out silence Gren leaves though, taking Jack with him.

It’s always…. _Interesting_ seeing other people talking in silence, weird. It both makes him feel more and less alone, to see that people can talk to each other without words and yet no one talks to him. He knows it’s easier with familiarity but…

Sometimes it just feels like no one wants to look past the idea of a wordless savage beast and see the person below.

///////////

Once the door’s slammed shut behind the two men Holly walks over to the bar and pours herself a drink.

Bigby waits, Holly will talk when she’s ready. Holly might have been tight lipped when Bigby came nosing around for information to potentially arrest her friend, but she’ll want to talk when it’s about the murder of her sister- when Bigby is here for once.

“I honestly didn’t know all that much about here life,” Holly says at last, “She was lost here, in the city. She just got swept away by it.”

Bigby thinks about track marks- mundy drugs. Lily fabled to look like someone else (Snow), under orders. Probably a prostitute, swept up and churned out by the city. Its endless crushing machine.

Bigby had been kinder eating his meals than New York was to its people. Chewed up and spat out.

“She was hooking,” Holly says after a regretful silence- which confirms that suspicion at least, and gives Bigby a better idea of who to keep an eye on. Except he doesn’t _know_ of any Fable prostitutes- he only knows the dead ones. It’s not a problem he’d ever thought of before.

It’s honestly almost harrowing to hear Holly talk about her sister, changing, stuck under the thumb of a “Georgie”- presumably a pimp. Fees and rules and being trapped.

Bigby shifts his jaw and shoots Snow a significant look over Holly’s head. A new place to check out, probably best for Bigby to go alone.

Sleep is drifting further and further away. But Bigby _can’t_ drop, so take that pink menace.

Once Holly mentions the club she clams up, lost in thoughts, too grief stricken, or decided she’s played nice enough with Bigby for one day Bigby doesn’t know. Snow gently prods at her, letting her know it’s up to Holly to continue or not, but Holly remains silent.

Bigby can read a cue as well as anyone, but he waits. Silence is the absence of words, not information or conversation. He can wait a few moments.

He’d waited for Faith- and maybe he should have _pushed_ a little more, not let her deflect with her ribbon and leave. But Bigby can only help people as much as they let him- if they don’t want him, and he has nothing concrete, then he can’t do anything.

Waiting is worth it.

“Where… where is she?” Holly asks, seemingly shaking herself to pull herself together.

“She’s at the business office, she’s been taken care of,” Snow says so gently and carefully, like Bigby couldn’t because he’s _useless._

Snow promises that Holly can have Lily’s body to carry out Troll funeral rites, or pay her respects, or just get some fucking closure. Finding out your estranged sister is dead has to be… complicated.

So Snow’s taking Holly to the business office, and Bigby’s going to the club to deal with shithole pimps. Maybe he can burn some more faces into his brain. So when the next woman turns up _dead_ he won’t have to waste time finding her name, he thinks sardonically. He knows it’s a shitty thing to think, but he’s so tired and he can’t do this. But yet there’s a job to be done, and it falls to Bigby, because he’s the only one who can do it.

“You were good with her,” Snow says, before they’re leaving, “I’m impressed.”

Bigby quirks a sceptical eyebrow, because he didn’t do _shit_. He didn’t say anything, all he did was wait, and maybe not go off at Jack, but that was about Jack not Holly.

Bigby doesn’t need false praise, and he certainly doesn’t deserve it.

“Really, thanks. It just makes everything easier,” Snow tells him so earnestly. Bigby wonders what she sees when she looks at him. Not a hammer.

Maybe that’s enough, maybe he doesn’t need to know more.

His eyes sweep over some of the broken boards and debris from his last visit and he feels vaguely guilty. Except Bigby is as broke as everyone else in this shithole, and he hadn’t even _started_ the fight (though he had sure as hell _ended_ _it_ , he thinks a little oddly), it’s not his job to pay up.

He hates clubs, they’re bright and noisy and crowded. They have all kinds of _smells_ , the smell of many bodies pressed up. The only solace is that this early the club will likely only be setting up so there won’t be any customers- thank god. Still, he groans internally.

Rips out a scrap of paper from his pocket, writes “Pudding and Pie” on it, and goes to flag down a cab. Yet another day of Mundy cabs thinking he’s an asshole. It’s whatever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter has Nerissa. The entire reason I started this. I'm so excited.  
> Hope you enjoyed.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's just hit me that the entirety of episode 2 takes over the space of only 24 hours. What a day everyone in Fabletown is having.

It's early evening when Bigby arrives at the club, and he’s avoiding knowing the actual time because he doesn’t want confirmation of just how long he’s been awake. Fables run tougher than Mundies sure, still not pleasant.

A woman with short hair and a purple dress and matching purple boots starts strolling towards him before Bigby’s barely out of the cab.

The smell of trash is strong, the neon lights hurt his fucking dry sleep deprived eyes, at least there’s no one around- no customers- he means.

“Oh!” the woman calls, a surprised lilt to her voice, Bigby can’t tell if its affected or not. “Sheriff. What a surprise. I’m not sure I’ve seen you here before.” She’s clearly wary- suspicious rather- and trying to cover it up. Bigby just looks at her with raised eyebrows, because _why_ would he come here?

Also can she cut the crap. He’s already dealt with Crane, Toad and Jack today. His tolerance for bullshit is fast approaching negative levels.

“You’re always welcome of course,” she keeps saying- just the other side of a purr- into Bigby’s silence. “Is it business?” her tone takes on an even more suggestive lilt, “Or pleasure?”

He gives her one of his best flatly unimpressed stares, because he hates clubs, and it’s not opening hours so why would he be here for… _services_?

“Yes, of course,” the woman speaks up eventually after a pause. She doesn’t sound regretful at all. “You’d better talk to Georgie.”

Bigby would very much like to talk to this Georgie. Get a face for a name, get some answers. Keep a fucking eye on him, see what’s up with all his “fees”. Thing is, if Georgie’s smart, and Bigby would guess because it looks like his club is making money, he’ll have set it all up through the Mundy system.

Point, Bigby can’t really do much to change any- he doesn’t have the authority.

“Come on,” the woman says with a role of her eyes, bending over to unlocked the door, before straightening up and talking to him with something that seems almost real.

“I should warn you,” she tells him cautiously, “that Georgie does _not_ like to be disturbed when he’s working. And he’s in kind of a… _mood_ right now.”

Yeah well that makes two of them. Bigby doesn’t give a solitary crap, two women are dead- Lily definitely worked here and Faith probably did. Lawrence had mentioned a “Georgie”- a “ _fucking Georgie_ ”.

He nods, and then folds his arms expectantly

“Then again, maybe he’s not the only one,” she says sharply back at him. Bigby doesn’t mean for his silence to be offensive, but it gets to a point where shits are not given.

It stinks inside. Though not of blood, which is good he supposes. Sweat and bleach, what an unholy combination. He tries to wrinkle his nose discretely.

“Welcome to the Pudding and Pie,” she starts up on her business spiel as soon as they enter the building. Like he’s going to suddenly decide to screw (heh) business and choose pleasure. Like he has suddenly decided that his life can be sorted out by strip clubs. Bigby thinks the honestly most attractive thing he could see right now would be a warm, clean, safe bed. Or his chair.

He wants to sleep okay?

“we cater to the diverse tastes of the fable community,” the woman continues, extending her arms out. As diverse as glamouring as other fables? Bigby wonders.

“Your pleasure is our pleasure, your desires are our desires,” yeah well Bigby’s desire would be for the murderer to be found, and his pleasure would be making sure Georgie knows Bigby’s going to be keeping a closer eye on this place in the future. Something he really doubts the pudding and pie wants. He doesn’t do anything though, scoff or snort. Just keeps looking at her with a furrowed brow, waiting for her to get to a point.

“Your imagination is the menu,” she turns to a whisper now, “And discretion is our guarantee.”

Bigby rolls her eyes and she clearly has decided to stop trying to sell to him because she doesn’t say anything else until the whine of shit music hits his ears. Loud and shrill.

A heavily tattooed man is holding a boombox- Bigby presumes that’s Georgie. There’s also a far beefier blond man sweeping in a corner and a _very_ young looking woman dancing around a pole in just a pair of underwear and heels.

From what he’s hearing already Georgie sounds _charming_.

He turns and waves at the woman to let her know that he has it from here and walks down to approach Georgie.

Interrogation time. Fucking brilliant.

Bigby doesn’t make any effort to quieten his footsteps as he walks over, trying to make himself heard and noticed above the music.

“Oh,” Georgie taunts, stopping his shouting at the dancer, “It’s you. We’re closed,” he taunts before ignoring Bigby.

“Keep dancing, you!” Georgie shouts, “I didn’t say stop.”

Somehow Bigby likes him less than he did before already. He shifts his weight behind Georgie who seems to realise he’s not getting rid of Bigby that easily and turns off the boombox. Thank fuck.

“You,” Georgie growls harshly, “Stay right there, don’t even _think_ about sitting down.”

Yeah no, not for this.

Bigby scowls at Georgie and waves the woman off, signalling for her to go away. He’s not super keen about having witnesses for sensitive interrogations and he’s not actually a shit and the woman looks so, fucking uncomfortable. Whether that’s him, or Georgie or being topless or some combination he doesn’t know. He just knows he’d rather she go off and do something else.

Bigby walks to stand between the woman and Georgie and looks Georgie directly in the eye as he waves off the woman once more.

“Well come on, I’m a busy man,” Georgie shoots back, a look of disgust on his face. It’s clear how he sees Bigby, what he sees him as.

He folds his arms and stares back at Georgie, he doesn’t bother trying to disguise his disgust.

“What do you want then? Here for a little taste?” Georgie leans forward like he’s imparting some kind of secret, like he’s gonna give Bigby something he _wants_. “If you want, come back after midnight, maybe I can hook you up.” Georgie winks.

 _No._ Bigby actually feels kind of sick, how Georgie’s talking about _people_ like they’re _things_.

Slowly, deliberately, Bigby turns his head in the dancer’s direction before jerking it harshly towards a door.

“Oh, you want her to go, do you Bigby?” Georgie mocks, “Well why don’t you tell her that? We’re not all speechless mangy dogs like you. Tell her how you like it and that’s what she does- that’s what my business does.”

Bigby doesn’t know if Georgie _knows_ , or if he’s just _fucking_ with him, but it’s like something is eating him from inside. He takes a step towards Georgie, cut the crap.

“I guess knowing you, she’s not your style eh? You prefer someone who can take a bit of a beating.” Georgie’s smirking and Bigby _knows_ he just wants a rise from him so he doesn’t snarl, or step forward. Doesn’t do anything that could _incite_ anything.

Because he doesn’t like beating people- and he _certainly_ doesn’t get fucking _off_ on it. He hates the feeling of split knuckles and what it means he’s done. He doesn’t like violence and he _hates_ that it’s the only language so many people are willing to speak with him.

“Tell me,” Georgie continues, voice deceptively soft, “Do you prefer a stationary target, or one that will put up more of a fight.”

Bigby’s never started a fight in his life (maybe the Big Bad Wolf had), his job is to end them. He tries to end them soft, but he ends them all and this is why people see him like this.

The only thing Bigby wants from Georgie is answers. And Georgie to know that Bigby might be back in future. To keep an eye on all the workers, and Georgie.

He clenches his jaw and keeps staring Georgie down.

“None of that Georgie, I’d rather just strike a macho pose for a moment.” The pimp mocks, before flopping back. “Jesus Bigby, you’re so corny, I love it though. Seriously I love it.”

Macho pose his ass. He’s running on no sleep and water and cigarettes. He’s not _macho_ , he’s fucking useless because he can’t say shit and move this along or stick up for the girl who he’s still very aware is behind him.

Bigby is done.

He takes two steps forward, taking full advantage of his weight to make his footsteps clack and echo threateningly. He crowds over Georgie, message very, _very_ clear.

Cut the crap.

“Okay, okay, alright,” Georgie calls, like _Bibgy’s_ being the unreasonable one in all of this. “Just fucking with you.” Georgie’s tone suddenly takes a far more serious and sinister tone.

“Look, I know why you’re here,” Bigby stares back assessingly. He doesn’t doubt it much, because he probably keeps track of his girls- which is why he’s such a big suspect- and news of bodies and heads had reached the Trip Trap hours earlier. People talk. (Just not Bigby)

Bigby waits for him to continue, but it seems that Georgie was maybe hoping this would be shocking or distressing or something for Bigby; the other man just keeps watching him confused, like he’s waiting for something.

“Listen, Sheriff,” Georgie picks up at last, “around these parts we can’t afford for you and your swanky pals to take an interest. We have to look out for each other. When shit happens I hear about it- _especially_ if it concerns my livelihood.”

Bigby doesn’t know how to make people understand that he has an interest in whatever someone says to him. But he also knows that there are plenty of fables that have been largely ignored, dropped through the cracks, lacking the funds to make Crane care.

Bigby’s not Crane, you don’t need to be rich, you don’t need to be innocent even. You just have to need help- Sheriff help. The system is broken and Bigby’s one man, arguably broken, too.

It’s not an excuse.

But people are not livelihood first and foremost, they are _people_ , and he doesn’t feel bad for Georgie. Georgie isn’t someone who keeps authority out because he feels left behind- it’s something he likely flourishes in.

This song and dance has gone on long enough. Bigby pulls out the photo of Lily’s (as Snow) severed head and the glamour tube. He’d written “Lily” on the photo earlier, in thick marker. Partially to stop him from seeing… something _else_ (Lips as red as blood…), partially for good record keeping, and partly so he doesn’t have to explain who the head belongs to every time he brings it up.

“Is this some new macho way of telling me that Lily was glamoured, Bigby? Because of _course_ she fucking was you daft git. She was a troll!” Georgie shouts exasperated, deliberately missing the point.

Bigby glares and shoves the photo further into Georgie’s face, because that’s _Snow’s_ face, and someone was giving her instructions. Georgie, as her pimp, is looking very good for this.

“So what,” Georgie sighs, unconcerned. “People get up to all kinds of things when nobody’s watching. It’s their own business.”

Yeah sure, unless it’s sheriff business. And Bigby always hopes it’s not sheriff business but that’s not how life seems to work.

“Is this some kind of great strategy to get me to incriminate myself? Brilliant.” Georgie says after there’s even more silence.

Which, well Bigby’s never thought it’s a _great_ one, but it is usually pretty effective, and it’s the only one he can really do. Because violence doesn’t count. He could beat the answers out of Georgie until he didn’t know what was truth, and what was just a desire for it to end. Then he could go back to his apartment covered in blood, knuckles aching and try and eat Colin. Blow down the Woodlands while he was at it in his cartoonish villainy.

He scowls. His pen and paper burns in his pocket, but he doesn’t want to have to resort to note taking. Doesn’t want to give Georgie that power and satisfaction over him. There’s still time to try and get results the normal way.

Too stupid to speak, they’ll say. Georgie will crow to everyone if he doesn’t split himself laughing. Bigby- he can’t let him know.

“This is exactly what I would expect from a thug like you.” Georgie taunts- and Bigby’s not the fucking _thug_ here. “Storm in, throw around a bunch of accusations, try to scare people, but you’ve got fuck all to back it up.” Georgie spits. Bigby watches the spit fly impassively.

“And we’re all just meant to jump anytime the wolf shows his teeth?” Georgie continues, cocky and loud.

Bigby hasn’t shown his fucking teeth. Because Georgie is right and that’s _not_ how it’s meant to work. Bigby’s not going to cave now, he keeps his mouth shut, doesn’t snarl.

“He used to be something you know,” Georgie says, almost conversationally, addressing the woman who’s still standing behind them.

She turns to look at him and her gaze burns. Because here he is, trying to show that he cares about all the fables and is able to help and-

And he’s standing here silent and doing _nothing_.

Her eyes are sad, but she looks almost thoughtful as she watches him. Bigby stares back and then she breaks away.

“Now look at him,” Georgie scoffs, Bigby agrees. Look at him indeed. A useless voiceless waste of space a wreck a-

 **Yeah keep going, you’re doing my job for me** the little voice smirks.

Bigby shakes the glamour tube a little more forcefully, points again at Snow.

“Yeah well, even if she _was_ dong a special glamour it wasn’t for me. I don’t need the trouble,” Georgie spills, seemingly more willing to incriminate himself after a good round of mocking Bigby.

Bigby rotates his wrist, so his hand is extended palm up to Georgie, a clear sign of “give it”. He wants names, ides of who it might be for. All he gets is an eyeroll.

“I don’t know. She had clients. Maybe one of them was into it.” Georgie’s eyes glint a little and his tone becomes more prodding, “Lots of fucked up people in Fabletown.”

Like? Fucker bastard, why does it all have to be like pulling teeth?

Bigby leans forward eyebrows raised, he wants names, he wants some actual _useful_ information because he knows Georgie has it. There’s got to be someone else involved, because no way is there some conspiracy being spearheaded by just one Pimp and his murdered prostitutes.

Georgie grins, leans back. “Try looking in a mirror,” he suggests tauntingly and Bigby feels himself rear back, eyes opening wide.

Which is dumb, because he knows how Georgie sees him (as someone who likes hurting people).

“Anyway,” Georgie finishes up, “It’s got nowt to do with me.” The awful shitty music starts up again on the boombox and Georgie is trying to dismiss him.

Bigby might not be able to speak but fuck does he know how to make himself heard.

He walks towards the boombox with intent clear in his steps He’s not leaving until he’s done, let him see how much Georgie likes the prospect of the pissed off Fabletown Sheriff stalking around his establishment during opening hours. Waving pictures of decapitated women.

Bigby knows how to play dirty.

“You gonna ‘it me?” Georgie asks, getting all up on Bigby’s face and it’s like Gren all over again. Maybe, Bigby thinks sardonically, he should start charging people to get in a fight with him. Since it’s so clearly what so many people want. People who think they’re so tough that they want to get in a brawl with Bigby Wolf (not the Big Bad Wolf, because Bigby is bad enough).

“Go ahead, that’s what you wanna do!”

He can’t deal with this idiocy anymore and he scoffs, it’s the first sound he’s made since entering the Pudding and Pie and it’s essentially drowned out by the music.

It’s enough to enrage Georgie.

The tattooed man swings, elbowing his boom box and he goes, and even though Bigby’s tensed up for impact, to move out of the way, it’s over before it’s even begun.

He doesn’t bother to bite down his snort as Georgie laments his boombox either, professionalism has long taken a backseat by this point.

At least Georgie’s let the woman finally leave now.

That’s when the big blond man comes to make himself known.

Georgie shoves the boombox into the man’s waiting arms with a “Fuck off Hans,” and Bigby turns to speculatively watch the man- Hans- leave.

Lots of people have eyes and ears in this place, and maybe they’re not all so antagonistic as Georgie.

Georgie sees him watching.

“Hans just cleans up and provides a little muscle when we need it- he’s not gonna know anything.”

Well, that’s a suspicious denial if Bigby’s ever heard one. He cocks his head as if to say _is that so?_ And then strides over to the bar.

“I cover my eyes, and I take my cut,” Georgie tells him. Bigby imagines living his life like that. If he’d just completely ignored Faith, if he’d evicted Colin, or if he quietly ditched this case like Crane so clearly wanted.

Well Georgie is scum, what’s new?

Hans is watching them with some concern, Bigby catches it out of the corner of his eye, but he looks away before he spooks the other man.

“Why don’t you just look it up?” Hans asks slowly, with a slight shrug. “Isn’t there a little book with all the stuff about the girls and al that written it?”

Georgie knew nothing his ass. Bigby feels his face light up and he _beams_ at Georgie. Georgie’s face has taken on a _very_ sour expression.

“There is no book,” Georgie hisses, his eyes spitting fire at Hans. Slowly and deliberately, Georgie walks over to the bar where a cricket bat with “CROW CONTROL” scrawled across it rests.

Bigby tenses and sharpens his eyes.

“And as for you Hans, we need to work on your communication skills, and I’ve a fairly good idea where to start…” Georgie hefts the bat and starts to walk towards Hans who shrinks a little.

Bigby snatches the bat out of Georgie’s grip effortlessly and before Georgie can notice what’s happened. He taps it twice against the palm of his hand for good measure and it’s _heavy_.

Bigby wonders if charges against Georgie for abusing his staff would stick. He should probably try anyway. When he has a spare moment.

Bigby drags the bat across the bar, the tinkling sounds of glasses smashing to the floor follows him and he doesn’t take his eyes off Georgie.

He wants the fucking book and he’d like it soon.

Georgie just keeps deflecting, rolls his eyes, so Bigby goes to stand next to something a little more valuable than a broken boombox. He won’t smash anything, but Georgie doesn’t believe that, and Bigby may as well play into it. Violence is Georgie’s first language so Bigby can try and fumble his way through it.

He follows Georgie around the club, cataloguing where it is that Georgie does and doesn’t go.

He goes to rest his leg on a barrel, because he’s been up for 3 days- has he mentioned? And he’s tired and if he’s gonna stay on his feet he wants a rest. But Georgie- well he _freaks_ really. It’s subdued but it’s obvious.

He looks down to his feet, the spot that Georgie is very carefully avoiding. The barrel is resting on a floor safe. He lets a smile crinkle the corner of his mouth.

It’s locked though, so Bigby snaps his fingers.

Georgie keeps trying to play dumb and Bigby can not be bothered. He stares Georgie down for a moment and then very pointedly shrugs.

He feels Georgie’s eyes on him as he crouches down and grabs a hold of the handle of the floor safe. Bigby could prise this open if he put his mind to it- if it’s really as irrelevant as Georgie claims then he won’t mind.

Bigby starts pulling at it, with just a display of his strength, enough to make Georgie sweat but not nearly enough to actually prise it open.

“Jesus fuck!” Georgie shouts, raising his hands, “Okay, okay, you win you fucker.” Georgie busies himself at the DJ booth and comes back with a small key.

“Don’t get your ‘opes up,” Georgie tells him bitterly, “There’s nothing in here that’ll tell you anythin’- but it’s a kick in the balls to me and my establishment so that probably makes you happy as fuck.”

Bigby lets an insincere smile take over his face as Georgie wordlessly shoves the book into his chest.

Flipping through it, he finds Lily’s most recent appointment, bracketed with (Snow) and booked in a room 207 with a “Mr Smith.”

Maybe the man’s name was Smith. Maybe Bigby’s actually a motormouth and Colin can fly.

“Oh it might be a fake name, Bigby” Georgie mocks, like Bigby’s an ignorant child. He breathes in sharply through his nose and then straightens up, points at the room number on the book.

Georgie starts going on about how he doesn’t know anything, how he’s just so innocent and just gives them _help_ , stage and a venue.

Yeah, Bigby thinks, and endless “fucking fees” Holly’s words coming back to him.

He keeps studying the book, looking for earlier entries and ones mentioning Faith. There’s the creak of a door and Bigby doesn’t look up because it was so quiet _he_ had to strain to hear it. Georgie doesn’t need to know they’re being watched.

It’s only once he’s straightening up that he dares peek upwards and sees a face quickly disappearing behind the door. He’s pretty certain it’s the same woman as from earlier. He watches her go, certain she saw him see her.

Bigby knows a lot about wanting to say things but not being able to. He rubs his head, just one more person to talk to tonight. Then maybe he can go and get some sleep. Maybe pick up some food because the Pig’s hardly able to run errands.

Georgie strikes him as someone who thinks that no one around him has ears- especially if they don’t speak. He’ll check in on the woman, see if she knows anything, see if she’s okay and then maybe he can finally stop.

“Now I’ve had enough of your bullying,” Georgie says, full of it. “Excuse me while I call your superiors to make a complaint.”

Bigby knows he should take that more seriously, but Bigby’s not really done anything and Crane hates his guts. If he hasn’t been fired by now then he won’t be. Especially when there’s no one to take his place.

Instead, he tunes Georgie out and walks towards the open door where the woman had disappeared.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally!! At last, we have proper Nerissa content, aka the only reason I wrote this.  
> Also I've posted this scene from Nerissa's POV as well so check it out if you want. I dont' know if I'll post anymore alternate POVs but we'll see. Episode 2 is nearly over.  
> Enjoy

The door leads to a room with cracked tiled floors, ugly, peeling, floral wall paper and a row of cubbies. Only a few of them seem to actually be in use.

There are some cosmetics on the floor, a tube or two of lipstick, contact lenses, a little compact thing. There’s also a folded up note.

Scanning the cubbies he sees Faith and Lily, and then a bunch more names he doesn’t recognise. Chloe, Nerissa, Diana.

There doesn’t appear to be anything of particular note in Faith’s cubby- and there’s nothing in Lily’s at all, though he checks. Just a busted open make up holder- which explains the cosmetics on the floor he supposes. He scoops them up and places them in the pink box with the busted lock. Cynically he questions if it was always like that or if someone went through Faith’s things and made sure nothing of help would be left.

He turns his attention to the note next.

_Faith,_

_Thanks for covering for me tonight!_

_Let’s talk before you go over to the apartment._




It didn’t seem like Woody hired Faith regularly and maybe this could be proof of that. But it’s not _helpful_ \- he’s not going to ignore it, but it’s not giving him leads.

Again, he wonders if anyone went through the girl’s cubbies. Conspiracy is abound, he wouldn’t be surprised.

There’s nothing else of note in this little room though, so he decides he might as well go on over and talk to the woman- the entire reason he came in this room in the first place.

///////////

He knocks on the wood of the doorframe as he enters the room, letting her know of his entry and allowing her some privacy.

Slowly she turns her head as if she’s been expecting him for a while.

“I heard you out there,” she tells him before focusing on the mirror once more. “I don’t remember ever seeing you here before,” She shakes her head, studiously avoiding him.

He shrugs, but he doubts she sees it. It’s not like he’d ever had a reason to come- he’s the _Sheriff_ \- not the club inspection officer. Though after tonight it’s certainly something he’s adding to his ever -growing rotation.

She resumes doing her lipstick, watching him out of the corner of her eye as Bigby strolls around to stand behind her so that she can see his face in the mirror.

You learn the tricks to communicating pretty quick, and you learn how to do them without raising an eye.

He keeps watching her for a bit, waits for her to speak- she has something she wants him to know- of that he’s certain. Whether she’ll tell him is different.

In the meantime, he tries to commit her face to memory, there’s already so many fables he just doesn’t know about, why shouldn’t she be one more? But he’s determined that she won’t be added to his list of failures- Faith and Lily. Faith who had wanted to tell him something and then… This woman seems young- and old. Obviously, they’re all _old_ , but maybe she’s not as old as most.

Or maybe that’s him overthinking.

“You’re trying to place me,” the young woman laughs, slightly despairingly as she shakes her head. She lets out a mirthless chuckle.

For his part Bigby smiles wryly, tilts his head, keeps his shoulders non-threatening. _Tell me_ , his posture suggests.

“They used to call me the Little Mermaid.” She’s smirking a little, her eyes are sad beneath it, but she seems amused. She clearly still has her spunk- whatever her defeated attitude earlier had suggested.

She knows something, maybe she’s trying to work out if he’s safe to tell. Because, conspiracy.

It feels familiar- _she_ seems familiar, though there’s no reason why she should.

“Once upon a time at least,” the woman- little mermaid says, with that brittle amusement of Fables who used to be “somethings” and aren’t anymore. The kind of look he’s seen on Toad reminiscing about Toad hall.

“Does that help?” her lips quirk and then flatten again.

A bit, but it doesn’t give him her name though, not really. He quirks an eyebrow, watches it be reflected back to him in the mirror. Folds his arms too, and settles back against the wall, grateful for its support.

“My name is Nerissa,” she- Nerissa- grants him after a short pause before going back to doing her lipstick. He nods in gratitude at her and keeps waiting.

Words are precious and Bigby will always be willing to wait for them. If this really gets him nowhere he can always pull out the book, but he’s more than happy to let Nerissa steer the conversation for now.

Meanwhile he looks around the room. There are numerous flyers with numbers on them, alcohol abuse, suicide hotlines, stress lines.

People falling through the cracks.

What makes it worse though, than the sheer _number_ of these flyers pinned up, is the layers upon layers of leaflets and pamphlets. Then the adverts for the Pudding and Pie itself stacked on top, scantily dressed men and women, adverts for the fucking club these women work in layered over a poster declaring suicide prevention, bits of it just poking out.

Post it notes in various handwritings say “smile” and are dotted around the mirror. It feels like the only thing that’s been pinned up in here with any humanity.

“I suppose you’ve got some questions,” Nerissa says slowly, putting her lipstick down at last, she doesn’t turn to face him though.

Bigby nods in ascent and watches Nerissa echo it solemnly.

“Well, I don’t think I have the answers. You’ll have to find those some other way.”

Bigby blinks slowly as there is the clatter of nails on wood. He doesn’t react otherwise, he can read the tense and thoughtful lines of her body that there’s something else she’s trying to say. Bigby can wait.

“But you’re good at asking questions in other ways, aren’t you?” Nerissa says, like it’s a matter fact- twisted smile rising again before dropping off. “So just apply it to getting answers.”

He squints at her, not sure what she’s getting at. Sure, there’s the _obvious_ , but how does Nerissa _know_? And if she knows then why is she still looking at him the same? Some mixture of resigned but amused.

“Do you like my ribbon?” Nerissa asks him, her fingers lightly tracing it and Bigby feels like he’s just had a shot of caffeine, ceasing his lounge against the wall. The same words as Faith, the same intense stare.

The ribbon is… it’s involved, it’s not just a uniform- there is something _about_ it. Does it monitor them in some way?

He shakes his head at her question, short and emphatic, because he thinks that’s what she wants. But Bigby _is_ good at asking questions, and getting answers in… less than orthodox ways, so he folds his arms and takes a step forward. Not too close, still being unthreatening, but trying to show he’s fed up.

He’ll give it a few more minutes then he’s bringing out the book.

Nerissa lets out a sigh, withdraws into herself folding her arms.

“We can’t talk about work,” she pauses significantly and turns her head a little towards him. It actually makes it harder for Bigby to read her expression because he can’t see her so well in the mirror- and her him.

Maybe she’s doing deliberately, looking away from him. Maybe it’s about the gesture.

“I mean _can’t_. These lips are sealed, discretion is our guarantee. It’s by _design_ ,”

These words swim and fill the air around him, all of them familiar. It’s what the woman in the purple dress, and Georgie and Faith had said. The deliberate phrasing makes him wonder.

Bigby’s done, he’s not getting anywhere, although he’s slowly less and less convinced that this is because of Nerissa. He pushes himself off the wall and stalks towards her, scowling.

Maybe she’s scared, maybe there are things she knows she needs to say but can’t work out how to say it.

But her two friends are _dead_ , can’t she give him something?

Bigby slams the book he’d got from Georgie down on the table. Flips to the page with Lily and Mr Smith and room 207, points at it. Jabs his finger on the paper so aggressively he thinks the paper might tear.

Nerissa opens her mouth and then it stops. “These, lips, are… _sealed_ ,” she chokes out, her eyes going glossy.

Bigby feels his own eyes going wide and he feels like shit.

 **Look at you, fucking up** the voice mocks and-

 _Shut the fuck up_ , he thinks back at it. Because he doesn’t care right now. He’s watching Nerissa and it’s like looking at a heavily distorted version of himself.

“Sorry Sheriff Wolf,” Nerissa says with a shrug, seemingly have gotten hold of herself again, “I can only answer your questions as well as you can ask them,” she says, very pointedly.

Bigby nods to show he gets it, eyes running over her assessingly. He might not understand why or how (like he even understands for himself) but he understands _what_.

Sometimes things just can’t be said no matter how much you want them to be. How much you need them to be, or anyone else needs them to be.

He crouches down a little and leans back to give her some space. Nerissa strikes him as a very smart woman and Bigby will always wait for words. Even if they’re not the right ones.

“Would you like to make an… _appointment_ , with me?” Nerissa asks him after some time, she’s raised her head from staring into the grain and looking up at him with earnestness in her yellowy eyes.

He raises his eyebrows, but doesn’t nod or shake his head, waits for her to elaborate, what she’s trying to get at.

“We could make all the usual arrangements, the usual _place_ ,” Nerissa tells him, tone flat and voice a little dead. It’s like she doesn’t _want_ to hope. Because hope can be dangerous.

He nods then, slowly, keeping his face flat- just in case he’s misinterpreting things he doesn’t want Nerissa to think he wants her like _that_. The Sheriff can’t just walk into a random Mundy hotel and demand to be let in. But if he had a key and an appointment, well… he’s a paying customer.

Oh fuck, money.

Before he can attempt to rustle through his pockets Nerissa pulls a few notes out of her bag and brushes off his attempt to reach out.

“Stay here,” she tells him firmly, anger and steel in her that wasn’t there before. Nerissa has moved beyond the resignation she’d been collapsing under with when he’d first entered.

He watches her go for a bit, scooping up the book before edging out to watch her talk to Georgie. Georgie doesn’t seem impressed, and Bigby wonders if there’s going to be talk for the next however many years of Bigby hiring prostitutes. It doesn’t matter though, everyone already talks so much shit about him, how can more hurt?

He sees Georgie’s glare reflect on him for a moment. Well, Bigby’s job is to protect people, so he can give Nerissa this.

He takes her hand when she comes back in, but loosely so she could let go if she wants; leads her out of the Pudding and Pie. He might as well try and make it look like Nerissa is doing her job and that Bigby _did_ want a little rough n’ tumble after all. At least so it won’t be so glaringly obvious that Nerissa’s gone against everything she’s clearly meant to do.

She pulls a little at first and he turns to look at her. Nerissa’s eyes rove over his face and it feels like he’s being studied for something, like she’s trying to see something beneath the skin, something she thinks ought to be there but can’t be seen.

He feels uncomfortably seen and is reminded of light fingers dancing over cuts on his face. A whisper that he wasn’t so bad.

It’s not helping that the last time he had physical contact with another person (which he wanted) was with Faith.

He prays to everything he does and doesn’t believe in that Nerissa’s head doesn’t turn up on the Woodland’s steps this evening.

Bigby waits a little longer and then starts walking again with Nerissa’s hand in his. This time she follows.

The number on the key says 204, but when he raises his eyebrows questioningly Nerissa just laughs a little.

“I’m sure you’ll think of something, Sheriff.”

It’s… it’s nice. People having faith in him- to do something positive.

When they’re on the street Bigby lets Nerissa’s hand fall from his own (he ignores how it tingles) and she gives him a small wave before walking off… somewhere. It’s not his business, maybe she’s going to get a smoke, or a drink, or just get out of that club with its falsely caring backroom, helpline numbers pasted over with adverts.

A scantily clad woman exits the motel opposite with a man in a Mundy cop’s uniform. He pulls his cap low over his head as Bigby passes.

Open Arms Hotel, the door declares, and Bigby is reluctantly amused by the pun.

Here there be monsters though. He pushes open the door.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter is the final chapter of Smoke and Mirrors.

The stink of sweat hits him as soon as he’s inside and he knows if he just shifts a little more towards the rooms the heavy unpleasant smell of sex is going to join it. He brings out a smoke and lights it up to try and take some of the edge off- so he can smell it but it’s not utterly overwhelming and all he can focus.

The acrid stench fills his nose and there’s smoke filling his lungs- Huff n Puff, cheap and shit. Would probably knock a reasonable of life off him if he were a Mundy, but just about strong enough to actually help with how _intense_ everything smells.

A tired fan blows hot air around and the lobby is such a state that it’s clear the owners haven’t even tried to pretend that anyone uses this motel for anything other than sex or desperation- made extra clear by the hourly roommates displayed on the sign.

Putting it one way, The Big Bad Wolf wouldn’t have struggled to blow this place down. Colin one- Open Arms Hotel Nil, Bigby supposes.

Missing Persons posters are tacked up sadly next to a broken phone. They’re old posters and they probably belong to Mundies (but what does Bigby know?). He thinks about the police officer he saw leaving and looks again at these smiling women.

Everywhere you go you can see the imprints of people who’ve been left behind. It’s almost like it’s the way of the world, a thin place riddled with cracks waiting to swallow people up. Maybe Bigby should find it reassuring that the Mundy cops fail too, maybe he’s not a total and object failure.

He feels worse.

There’s no one to be seen behind the grate, no one to see him, and he has a key anyway. It’s not like he needs to check in, so he clears his mind of missing Mundies and heads for the stairs.

“Keep your pants on, buddy. You have to check in first if you want a room,” a female voice calls out- it’s familiar to his ears and he’s trying to place it.

Not that it matters, he just wants to get onto his job and sleep. But he’s not going to half arse this because he’s tired, he’ll do this with all the diligence it deserves, but he’d really like to hurry up and do it.

“Mosey on back and we’ll get you set up,” the voice calls tiredly but firmly, Bigby narrows his eyes because he definitely recognises that voice. He scowls and reaches for his key to display it. Then stops as he _finally_ works out who it is.

Beauty.

He supposes this was where she was going in such secrecy the other night.

Bigby drums his fingers on the screen a clear signal for Beauty to lift it- which after some hesitation, she does.

“I work here okay,” Beauty rushes out, all defensive before Bigby’s even had time to make any kind of expression. Like Bigby’s going to disapprove of people engaging in honest work to make a living.

The hang ups the people have at the Woodlands are… strange.

“I work the front desk.” There’s a very pointed emphasis there that Bigby’s not sure he likes. Faith and Lily weren’t- Nerissa _isn’t_ lesser because they were the prostitutes, and they weren’t any better. All four of them, women trying to make their way through the world. Then again Georgie’s thumb is clearly deeply exploitative and pressing very hard, he’s glad at least one more person hasn’t joined his ranks.

“It’s to pay rent. So, now you know,” Beauty tells him, sounding deeply embarrassed as she folds her arms and hangs her head. Bigby can’t deny he’s _surprised_ to see her here, but it’s not like he cares- or judges- rather.

“I know I should have told somebody,” Beauty keeps talking and Bigby doesn’t really care, although yes, he could have done without all the subterfuge the other night- it’s her business, not Sheriff business.

“But Beast would lose his mind if he knew,” Beauty’s voice shakes a little and her eyes stay downwards. His eyes flick over her person, his attention picking up- because that sounds uncomfortably like it _could_ be sheriff business, he sets his jaw.

“Beast is a proud man, Bigby. He wants to do right by me, and he… he just couldn’t handle it if he knew I had to do _this_ so we don’t get evicted- all of our friends live at the Woodlands. He’d be mortified.” Beauty stops speaking at last and Bigby runs a hand over his stubble consideringly, internally he sighs.

He places one of his hands down on the counter and bends over a little so he’s staring up at her, raises his eyebrows a little.

“Oh yeah, thanks for covering for me, he said he ran into you, but Beast would have said something if you’d told him.” Beauty’s picking lightly at her hand and Bigby follow it, narrows his eyes and then looks back at Beauty’s face, turns his head and waits for her to return his gaze.

Wha- oh!” Beauty exclaims shaking her head, “It’s not like that, really. He’s a good man, I just… it’s not what you might be thinking,” Beauty responds to Bigby’s increasingly rising eyebrows. “Really.”

He nods, he’ll take Beauty’s word on it because it’s not like he has anything else to go on, he’s here if she ever _does_ need him.

Back to the main business at hand.

Bigby dangles his key in front of Beauty to show that he has a room, to end the conversation. It doesn’t quite work like that.

“Oh!” Beauty says, sounding shocked, “you have a… key.” Bigby scrunches his face a little because it’s not like _that_ , it’s Sheriff business. Which, speaking of…

He fishes out Georgie’s book from his pocket and flips through it until it’s at the page with Lily’s name on it. Then he points at it and the date and waits while Beauty reads over it.

“Oh, the troll?” Beauty says questioningly to which Bigby nods, “We never really spoke, but she came off a tad intimidating, and I can’t help you any with the name. We only seem to get Smiths, Jones and Johnsons- I think the last ones are jokes.” Beauty says that with a considerable amount of distaste.

Bigby nods in gratitude because it’s pretty clear Beauty doesn’t know much and makes to head up to the rooms, grounding his cigarette out under his shoe. He doesn’t want to be dropping ash all over a potential crime scene.

“-Wait,” Beauty calls to his retreating back and he reluctantly turns around. “It’ll be better if anyone sees you that they at least see you with me so they know that I didn’t let you wander around here by yourself.”

Bigby quirks a grin at that, despite his irritation, because the way they seem him no one is ever going to think that Beauty _let_ him do anything. The idea that anyone would see anything other than Bigby strongarming a poor, innocent, woman is laughable. Unless it was with Nerissa or Faith for example, then they’d probably laugh or be glad. He remembers Tweedle Dee’s mocking shock that Bigby had thought Faith deserving of _anything_ \- because she was a prostitute who had driven an axe into Woody’s head with more glee than was altogether necessary.

Fables have a nasty habit of seeing everything in black and white. You’re good or you’re bad, and you’re strong or you’re weak. You’re human or you’re a beast.

“Just be ready to act like I’m trying to kick you out,” Beauty hisses as they start up the stairs. He snorts a little but doesn’t otherwise object. He’d prefer Beauty to stay out of this, but maybe she’ll remember some useful information at some point.

///////////

He can smell something coppery and tangy as soon as he reaches the upper corridor, a hint of salt too. It’s all buried under a smell of sex and he can see the exposed boiler pipes along the wall.

He has a bad feeling that this place is going to be a good find.

It feel overly dramatic that room 207 is at the far end of the hall, almost as if it’s staring him down in some kind of challenge or duel.

Beauty’s talking about official reports and leaving things in or out. He scrunches his eyes a little at her and looks away. He’s going to have to mention her, but he supposes he can redact her name on anything circulated. It’s really not the top of his priorities right now, and he knows Beauty can’t smell what he can, doesn’t suspect what he does but it’s not something he wants to talk about when he could be going onto a murder scene.

There are copper pipes and plenty of people in this motel and he’s sure it has more than a few stories. But that salty metallic tang is still strong in the air.

Beauty is still so uncomfortable about the possibility of Beast overhearing that he looks over her again, in case there’s something he’s missed. Marriage issues or sheriff issues?

It would be easier if he could speak.

The key doesn’t work, naturally, he hadn’t really expected it to, but you could never be sure with shitty doors. There are no sounds when he knocks on the door either and he’s pretty sure that it’s empty.

The metallic smell of blood is stronger here and Bigby knows that he needs to get into that room. Whatever happened to Lily it happened in that room- or at least it started there.

He glances at Beauty and gives her a small shrug, then he goes to kick the door down, it won’t be hard, place this shit. Maybe he should ask for permission but he doesn’t have the _words_ , and he doesn’t have the time because he knows how Business office bureaucracy works. Especially Crane, who seems oddly reluctant for this to go ahead.

“Hold on Bigby,” Beauty calls out, coming closer tottering on her heels, “I can’t just let you go into any room you want.” She lowers her voice into a hissed whisper, “Seriously, what if someone found out? I could get into a load of trouble.”

Somehow Bigby doubts anyone would care much if Bigby’s right about what they’re going to find in that room.

He fixes Beauty with one of his hardest glares, one that says he will take no shit. Tries to impress the weight of two murdered woman- Faith and Lily- onto Beauty. Places a hand lightly on the door knob for emphasis.

“Fine,” Beauty huffs and pulls out what Bigby guesses is a master key, bending to fiddle with the lock. It doesn’t open.

“Well that’s weird. This key is supposed to open every room in the building. But it’s not working.” Beauty says and Bigby prepares to go back to his _original_ plan of kick it open.

Curious that the locks were changed- he can smell blood. Had someone not cleaned up? Had someone cleaned up? Had-

“Beauty?” A voice calls from down the hall.

Oh

Fuck.

They turn in tandem to see Beast standing at the other end of the corridor, illuminated by the red light of the Exit sign.

“Bigby?” Beast continues, voice lowering into a half growl.

Bigby does not need an irrationally pissed off husband right now- in fact no one ever needs one of those but-

“How could you do this to me?” Beast warbles and Bigby screws his eyes shut to deal with the headache he can feel brimming.

It can’t look good, him and Beauty, a no-tell motel. Except that there’s no reason why it _should_ look bad, not if Beast trusts his wife and Bigby’s fucking _working_.

“No sweetie, no, wait a minute!” Beauty tries to hurriedly explain, walking away from him and towards her husband. It’s to no avail, Beast’s so clearly wrapped up in his own head, seeing what he wants to see. Wedded bliss Bigby’s arse.

“How could you do this? We’ve been together through everything! I took care of you! I lov-“

“It’s not what you think! Please!” Beauty shouts back voice breaking sounding desperate.

Bigby’s eyes itch and it’s a struggle to keep them open, but he keeps them on Beast who’s making his way up the corridor. Pretty calmly too, so it’s probably not Bigby’s business and he doesn’t want to be here- but obligation makes him keep watching in a half interest.

“You’re cheating on me!? With _him_?!” Beast says sounding honestly aggrieved. Well, that’s a bit of a low blow. Bigby’s no cheat but he didn’t realise he was so _bad_. Of course Beast probably sees him as an animal- below them all because he doesn’t play nice at the Woodlands and layering on masks of fake happiness.

“I’m helping him- that’s all!” Beauty begs, and it’s only because Bigby’s been watching Beast warily that he sees the exact moment the other man’s eyes go red.

“I’ll bet,” Beast growls pure rage- _jealous rage_ \- focused on Bigby, he tenses up a little but tries not to be obvious about it. He doesn’t want to _provoke_ anything.

“I know what this place is! I _know_ what goes on here!”- which, seems possibly pretty hypocritical. Because actually, why is Beast here and- but also Bigby doesn’t really care. It’s not his fucking business unless it’s sheriff business and potential cheating is not sheriff business.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Beast spits out at Bigby, clutching his head.

How long do you have? Bigby thinks dryly.

“She’s my _wife!”_ Beast shouts and Bigby just about refrains from rolling his eyes. It’s a good thing he does.

Beast pushes past Beauty to latch his hands onto Bigby’s collar and push him up against the door.

Bigby stiffens, but breathe in, breathe out. Don’t bring his arms up, don’t start a fight, he just needs to end it.

“I guess I finally see you for who you are!” Beast roars out- like he’s ever seen Bigby as anything _good_ , higher than gum on his shoe. A busybody, a lapdog.

“I knew you were sneaking around!” Beast continues, searching Bigby’s face for something. For his part he just raises an eyebrow, because Bigby has better things to do than sneak. (Like fucking sleep).

Beauty’s shouting for her husband to let Bigby to calm down and Bigby plants his feet. Doesn’t let Beast jerk him around any longer but doesn’t start to fight back yet either. Not until Beast’s horns come out and a fist is being levelled at his face.

He ducks under the arm and turns them around so now Beast is backed up against and Bigby has all the space of the corridor behind him.

Beauty and Beast are still talking but Bigby doesn’t care, he hasn’t slept in days and he hasn’t eaten in longer and yet this dance still comes so naturally to him.

Maybe he _is_ just violence, no matter how much he doesn’t want to be.

A dodge to avoid sharp nails to the eyes. Grapples Beast to throw him into a wall and then again on the other side when Beast decides to get back up.

Ignore the feeling of his own claws stretching out and the yellow haze that has taken over. Remember the extra damage that he could do and pray that no Mundies decide now is the time to finish their trysts and come out into the corridor- not that anyone would report anything that happens here.

“Leave him be!” Beauty begs him, her hands on his chest. Scared- but not of him? He-

Beast is pulling the pipes off the wall and now Bigby’s fighting someone who is armed. There’s not enough time to get out of the way so he braces for impact, a blow with a lead pipe is going to _hurt_.

Before he can catch his breath he’s being pushed back into the wall with the piping against his neck. Bigby doesn’t need to breathe like most people do, he’s the Big Bad Wolf and he can huff and he can puff ‘til he…

He’s pushed the pipe back enough to get some room and then he takes the risk to let go. His nails are now in Beast’s eyes who flops back screaming in pain. Wetness, sticky and thick, gathers around his fingers and under his claws and they slide out with a sickening squelch.

Before Beast can regain his awareness or his sight Bigby launches himself at the other Fable, wrapping himself around his legs and tackling him to the ground.

He punches him once to make sure the man gets the message, to _stay_ down because Bigby is dangerous and violence wrapped up paper thin that he desperately tries to keep together.

Beast squirms and Bigby’s debating the merits of one more hit- just to make it clear to Beast that he _could_ do a lot more, but that he won’t. Beauty begs him not to in his ear and he tries to regain himself. Break through the yellow haze of his vision.

His hand is resting on Beast’s throat, but he’s just starting to lessen up when he sees movement out of the corner of his eye. Before he can do anything the fucker’s _glassed_ him. The blow making him hit the floor with a bang, his vision swims.

He’s back on his feet and Beast is crouched down below him still shouting.

“You ruined everything!” the other man rages and it’s like Gren all over again, Beast isn’t going to back down.

The door is behind them and Bigby had been about to kick it down anyway.

He runs into the fable, puts all the force of his body into shouldering the other man backwards.

They crash through the door, Beast’s lying below him on the wooden slab and Bigby’s crouched in the doorway breathing heavily. Stay down, he thinks. Stay down, _please_.

He doesn’t want to fight.

He pants.

“Shit Bigby,” Beast says, the fight finally going out of him, maybe stumbling across a murder scene was _finally_ enough for Beast to pull his head out of his arse.

There’s blood all over the bed, a bloody smear surrounded by purple flowers. The scent of blood mixing with something cloying is starting to make sense. But just because he’d been expecting it, it doesn’t make it any less horrific.

This is _definitely_ where Lily had died.

“Wha- what is this?” Beast asks shakily, looking around from Bigby to Beauty to the blood.

“Look what you did to the door!” Beauty scolds haughtily, clearly not caught on to the horror she’s found herself in. At least she doesn’t sound scared or intimidated by Beast. One thing less to be Sheriff business.

His shadow is illuminated across the bed, featureless it could belong to anyone- could belong to the murderer. A smoky smell hangs through the air.

_I’m so sorry Lily_ , he thinks. He wonders how many people were in this motel when it happened, how many- if _any_ of them heard and whether they just ignored it. If she tried to shout for help.

“Stay outside,” Beast tells his wife urgently, “You don’t want to see this.” And it’s nice that Beast’s doing his job- telling people to stay back, even if it’s likely unintentional.

“What? Why? What’s going on?” Beauty asks coming forwards, he knows when she sees it and when she realises because she lets out a shocked gasp.

“Oh my god.”

It’s then when it really hits Bigby that there are three of them in this crime scene and he walks towards them with his hands up, gently ushering them back towards the doorway and away from anything they could touch or contaminate. He needs to solve this, for Lily and Faith. For all the Fables who feel like they've been left behind uncared for.

“Is- is this where it happened?” Beauty speaks up shakily from behind him. Bigby’s not looking at them, still surveying the murder scene but he nods.

“Last night?” Beauty presses with an edge to her voice that has him turning to look at her while he nods.

“I was on shift last night,” Beauty continues shakily and Bigby hardens his gaze- tries to impress how much he needs to _know_.

But her attention is grabbed by Beast whose insecurities are raring up their ugly head once more.

“On shift?” Beast chokes out, “Beauty, what does tha-“

“I’m not a prostitute, you _idiot_ ,” Beauty hisses, “I work the front desk!”

“I, so that’s-“ Beast flounders, “Still… this is no place for someone like you! I mean look.” Beast gestures at the bed and the flowers and the blood.

Bigby doesn’t scowl but it’s close. It’s still the Woodlands lot acting like they’re so much _better_. This is no place for _anyone_ \- doesn’t matter who they are. Nobody deserves to be murdered and nobody deserves to be pushed to margins desperate to survive.

Not wanting to waste anymore time listening to Beauty and Beast’s budding domestic he slaps his hand against his thigh once, hard.

The resounding slap gets both Beauty and Beast focused on him again.

“I- oh,” Beauty says, seemingly realising that maybe he wants information about last night from her. Some way of solving this _murder_.

“Last night, it just sounded like a totally normal night,” there’s distress in her eyes, “How is _that_ even possible? There’s so much blood…” Bigby looks at her regretfully and then starts pacing around the room.

Where to start?

Oh- Beast probably. He firmly but gently places a hand on the centre of Beast’s chest and goes to push him out of the room, he seems to make to protest but a few words from Beauty and then he’s leaving without protest.

Maybe Beast can help keep people out. And Beauty can stay to try and help Bigby solve any questions he might have. His pen and paper burns in his pocket but he doesn’t want to make notes while Beauty is watching.

“Bigby,” Beauty says, sounding so honestly shocked and horrified. “What kind of a person could do something like this?”

She’s so laughably innocent. As Georgie said, there’s _plenty_ of fucked up people in Fabletown and conspiracies like little less than being found out. But exactly who?

That’s what Bigby’s going to try and find out.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So don't be like Bigby, deal with unwelcome thoughts healthily. (I haven't but let me know if you think I should tag/warn for anything, this chapter or earlier)

Deciding to leave the bed and the blood for now he first turns his attention to the cassette player, turning it over. There’s no cassette in it, nothing written on it, and there’s no blood in it. Probably just incidental. That’s confirmed when Beauty, presumably having seen Bigby fiddle with it, informs him that all the rooms have one.

Classier than he’d expected.

The bed it is.

The way the flowers are arranged around the blood streak suggest they were already there when Lily was killed- and that she was lying down. Presumably beheaded and then dragged off the bed- hence the break in the flowers at the bottom. Not much sign of a struggle, so maybe she was resting- or it was part of whatever she was doing with “Mr Smith” gone _very_ wrong. It must have been quick too- one hit, or at least unconscious in one blow. Bigby’s still not any closer to what the weapon was, the weird upwards cut made with what seemed to be a blunt blade.

Next to the pencil and paper burning in his pocket against his thigh he also has a purple flower. He’d forgotten to put it in the evidence box back in the Witching Well Chamber, and then he’d forgotten he had it when he was in the business office with Bufkin. It’s just now, looking at all the others that he remembers it.

Drawing it out he gives it a quick sniff before sniffing the bed- ignoring the weirded-out look he’s sure Beauty is giving him. His sense of smell is _insane_ \- he might as well try to use it to his benefit. The flowers smell the same, well more or less. Under the smell of death and cold clammy water and the smell of blood.

It had definitely been Lily lying here, no chance he’d stumbled across the murder scene of someone else.

Bigby stares at the blood for a little longer, he still can’t work out how whoever did this got out without being seen- surely they must have been _covered_ in the stuff. And they had a dead body with them no less.

Unless of course, there were plenty of people to turn a blind eye and palms just _waiting_ to be greased.

 _Conspiracy_ , his mind sings.

The how can be established later though, now he needs to concentrate on getting as much information as he can out of this scene. Before someone finishes their tryst, or shift change happens, or someone _sees_.

He walks over to the desk where there’s a book lying on the table.

“We shouldn’t even be in here,” Beauty whispers, shifting nervously, “Can’t you just hurry up and we can go?”

Bigby doesn’t bother to deign that with any form of response. Bigby will take more fucking trouble with Mundy cops before he’ll leave this room without gleaning as much as he can from it. Beauty’s free to leave if she’s so nervous. She can play dumb and spin it all on him. Bigby’s not leaving.

“Grimms’ Tales” the book declares in ornate lettering and Bigby bites down an instinctual grimace. Mundies and their romanticised bullshit, Prince Charmings and woodsmen swooping into save the day, everything sanitised and polished and scrubbed until it’s just about recognisable.

Flipping it open there’s a picture of Snow- well not of _Snow_ \- Snow White. The text alongside it is all in German so Bigby doesn’t bother trying to read it- besides he knows the story, the _real_ story and this sanitised bullshit. What’s more of note is the post-it note stuck on the page labelled “Beautiful.”

It’s underlined as well.

It matches up with the body and the instructions they’d found. He wishes he had the perfume bottle here now, so he could try and compare the handwriting, eyeball it. See if whoever had given Lily the instructions for perfume had also finished it off with a full stop.

“Is this a whole book about _Snow?_ ” Beauty asks suddenly peering over his shoulder to where the book lies. He nods slowly, and then raises his hand up to gesture in a so-so motion. It’s a whole book about _a_ Snow.

Flicking to the next page reveals another post-it note, this time questioning the type of apple Snow had been eating in the Mundy tale. It’s a whole new level of obsessive devotion- this need for it to be so _perfect_. To have this complete ownership over Snow, he wonders if he knows who it is. Can feel his eyes twitch.

The next page is even worse- the Snow in a coffin as all the people think she’s dead. It’s not so much the image, though it hardly makes Bigby _comfortable_ , but the last and possibly most damning of all the post-its.

“ _Was she breathing?”_

The Snow in the drawing is lying prone in the glass coffin, cut off from the world and surrounded by flowers.

Like the bed, playing out this final scene.

But…

The simple answer would be that the murderer wanted to live out his fantasy to the very last (was she _breathing_?), but then if he was so desperate so _eager_ why would he stop it? And why would one fucked up creep have enough power to organise this entire conspiracy that’s dancing around him just out of reach?

Whoever this was is either a patsy, far more powerful than Bigby would like, or utterly deranged and unable to think beyond the immediate realm of pleasure. Or they think they’d be another Snow waiting in the wings, able to source a new one.

If Lily had been strangled or choked- something that could have started off unintentional and then gone very wrong maybe Bigby could think whoever bought her and paid for her to live out his fantasy was the killer.

There is no way you can behead someone with anything other than intention.

Beauty’s asking him questions but Bigby doesn’t respond, because it’s more complicated than shrugs and she’s not part of the case. He just keeps staring at the writing, the pages, the pictures. Maybe if he keeps staring the words will rearrange themselves into something that makes sense, some kind of answer.

His head is still swimming a little from when Beast glassed him- or maybe it’s that and the lack of sleep and the lack of food. He’s a fable and he can keep going for longer than most of _them._ A large portion of his youth had been spent hungry alone and desperate. And then he’d eaten entire armies and vowed he wouldn’t be hungry and desperate and _scared_ like that again. He’s kept two of those promises. Bigby would like to buy food, his trousers are conspicuously empty of cash- other than his emergency cab fare- and his fridge of food. He has some stowed away in his apartment, for rainy days and he’s owed most of last month’s wages from the business office, but Crane’s useless and Snow doesn’t _technically_ have the authority to pay him. Even though she’d slipped him some- it was legally Bigby’s anyway, she’d pointed out.

Pinching his nose, Bigby tries to reassert some kind of order in his mind as Beauty keeps talking.

“What’s it mean? Why mark the page where she was sleeping?” She sounds confused and afraid.

Because it matches the bed, because some people are _fucked up_ in all the ways that people like Georgie would relish being able to hold over your head. He just sighs silently.

“Whatever it is you don’t want to tell me…” Beauty shakes her head, “I’m sure it’s not good.”

Yeah, he thinks tiredly yeah welcome to his job.

The other things of note on the desk are a _very_ fancy wine bottle judging by the design and the smell and an almost intact cigarette.

It smells familiar and he reaches into his pocket to compare (not that he needs to, he knows).

Huff n Puff, the box declares and upon withdrawing a single cigarette from the box he knows it smells the same. He can feel Beauty leaning over his shoulder, so he shakes the box at her a little to see if she gets the message before pocketing it once more.

  
“It’s a… Huff n Puff?” Beauty says, shakes her head, “I thought you were the only one who smoked that crap brand.”

Bigby shrugs, doesn’t roll his eyes because _obviously_ not or else it would go out of business. Besides, he’s seen he’s seen the vending machines selling them both in the Trip Trap and the Pudding and Pie. Plenty of places within Fabletown to get them.

Of course, that’s not what Beauty sees, she frequents _nice_ places with fancier brands and faker people. Sometimes you want a smoke, but you also want to be able to pay rent that month.

Though maybe Beauty _does_ get that a little more than Bigby would have expected- getting jobs where she can find them.

The last thing is a cassette, and instructions (more of them) for it to be played upon arrival.

Which begs the question of why it’s lying out of the cassette player and on the desk- part of whoever did clean up or?

He stops and pauses, _“my_ ” the label had said, not a name. These instructions hadn’t been given by Georgie or some other person in this conspiracy fingers in pies but eating none. It’s from whoever bought Lily.

Unless it’s a different person, and that’s why it’s out of the machine and whoever killed Lily and cleaned it up, or whoever cleaned it up wants to make it look like someone else did it.

Someone who smokes Huff n Puffs (Bigby would be the first person they would point to)? Or _did_ someone smoke Huff n Puffs?

It’s a conspiracy and there are too many layers and maybe once he’s back in his office and had some sleep. When his head stops pounding and he can sit down and try and link this all up. Now he’s just got to grab as much information as he can and get out, sorting it all out and untangling the mess can come later.

Placing the cassette in the player chirpy cheerful woodland sounds come out. It’s clearly meant to evocate the woods in the book. It’s from whoever wanted the Snow glamour (and maybe Lily) alive.

That’s when Beauty finally speaks up with actual information, the whole reason Bigby let Beauty stay up here.

“Bigby, this, I think I heard this music. Last night,” Beauty tells him, walking over to be closer. “It was playing pretty loudly for a while, then it stopped in the middle. I didn’t think about it at the time, I mean you hear all kinds of things around here and I guess I’ve already gotten used to blocking them out.”

She sounds guilty. Bigby stares at her and then back at the blood stain on the bed.

Was the tape playing for the “Mr Smith”? Or was it for the murder? Or was it for the cleanup? None of this quite makes _sense_.

There’s an apple on the floor, shrivelled and brown, a quick sniff doesn’t reveal anything that could be _poison_ or drugs. It’s just an apple, manky as it is.

(For a moment he wants to bite it too, he shakes his head. It’s _evidence_ and it’s disgusting, and it’s not even _meat_.)

“Is it just an apple?” Beauty asks, “Or is there more?”

Bigby hates those kinds of questions, there’s no way to answer them.

“Why won’t you tell me what’s going on? I can handle this!” Beauty shouts at his silence, and let her think he’s just being sulky. It’s not really her business to know, and Bigby _can’t_ tell her. But he can’t even tell her that.

“You’re like a brick wall! How does she _stand_ you?” Beauty finishes, tossing the words out and pacing around the room.

How _does_ Snow stand him indeed? He’s fucking useless. But she’s _easy_? Not quite the right word, she’s _calming_ maybe. When there’s not a murder investigation going on and they can get lunch together or split a cab. When someone makes a comment about dwarves and Bigby glowers at them and then buys Snow _apple juice_ because for some reason that’s what she likes to drink, not coffee. When Snow gives him the money that Crane hasn’t authorised because Bigby can’t ask Crane about it- he _can’t_ with a look that suggests she might be doing some creative bookkeeping so that he can keep food in his fridge.

Snow is…

This isn’t about Snow, or it is and it doesn’t matter which but both make him want to keep her out of this. Out of this room right now where Lily died.

The only place he hasn’t looked now is the closet, so he pushes past Beauty to go look inside.

A torn dress lies hanging from the rail, it’s old and so _fairytalesque_ (their lives were not fairytales) and it’s like the one in the book. This man, who had obsessed over Snow, but not Snow- Snow White. The Mundy fairy version with the sanitised past and the big eyes. And then he’d torn into this dress.

Lily hadn’t been murdered in this though, there’s no blood on it and it wouldn’t make much sense to change her clothes in a murder clean up either. Redressing her with her personal effects and clothes to match Snow’s was, if anything, _more_ suspicious than finding her in this dress.

(And it’s weird that someone had taken great pains to remove the body without being seen but hadn’t even thought to strip the sheets.)

There is a patsy here (it better not be fucking _him_ , let them _try_ to make him take the fall.)

The most disturbing thing about the dress isn’t what it tells him about the murder, it’s the tales of how many times this happened, and this isn’t about Snow, it’s about Lily (and Faith) but it still makes him nervous.

Because whoever this was, his Snow stand is gone. So, he’s either going to find a new woman to glamour (too risky) or he’s going to try to move on to Snow. Both risky moves. She’ll be fine, she’ll be _fine_ he tells himself.

Jesus christ.

He surveys the room one more time, just to make sure he hasn’t left anything out, and that’s when he sees it. An envelope, just peeking out under the rug. (Poorly hidden or _begging_ to be found?)

In it are pictures. Pictures of-

“Are they pictures of the dead girl?” Beauty asks quietly.

Bigby swallows, shakes his head, no.

It’s Snow, the _real_ Snow, and he knows that because he’s in some of them. A picture from last fucking winter, him smoking as he left Cindy’s shop with Snow. (Cindy always had the information you wanted.) This has been going on for _fuck_ knows how long.

And he knows they’re not watching him, they’re watching Snow, but his skin still crawls. The idea that someone took photos of him and Snow, and Snow while he was there and he didn’t _know_. Him, Bigby, who prides himself on his awareness of his surroundings.

“Oh no,” Beauty says, where she’s standing by his side, “You- How long ago was this?”

Bigby shrugs (Last Winter, Bigby had bought tacos because Snow had come with him. He’d complimented her hair while she’d adjusted her coat).

Beauty just shakes her head at his non-answer (because why would he remember? Why would the _Big Bad Wolf_ care?)

“This kind of stalking…” Beauty says, with the air of someone who knows what they’re talking about and Bigby breaks his attention away from the photographs to look at her more closely.

“it doesn’t just stop by itself. Trust me, I know about this firsthand.” Bigby follows her gaze to the bed.

“He’ll keep trying to get closer and closer, always the next step closer.”

And his Snow stand-in his gone. So he’s got to make a new one, or go after the one that exists.

Pulling the last photo out of the pouch Bigby is filled with a mixture of rage and nausea. His stomach broils as he glances at the bed, trying to convince himself it’s not true because it’s not adding up.

Crane. Crane lying atop Lily glamoured as Snow- wearing that torn dress- and in this room.

He knew Crane was worthless, and a _creep_ and uncaring about anyone who couldn’t flatter and pay his cretinous existence but…

This?

Everything about Crane is slotting into place though, his reluctance to investigate the case, his weirdness when Snow had been dead.

His weirdness about Snow.

He needs to get Snow away from Crane, he needs to show her these pictures he needs-

Beauty’s gasp lets him know when she’s seen it too.

If his brain could stop for a moment maybe he could process, assess but it won’t. Snow, Crane, Crane, Snow, Lily, Murder, Snow, Glamor, Crane, Crane, Crane.

He launches himself out of the room, not caring if anyone sees the scene left behind. How long will a cab to the Woodlands take at this hour? Could he run it faster?

He’s going to be sick.

Does Crane know they’re onto him by now?

**Better hurry up bitch. She’s dead, and it’s all your fault. Crane’s gonna grab her and he’s gonna** \- the voice sing songs.

Bigby smashes his head into the wall where the shattered glass lays from Beast’s earlier impact with it. His ears ring and everything is shaky but at least it’s shut up.

The fucking _bird_ music is still playing.

///////////

Everywhere there are words. Too many things he could say but can’t say but needs to say and have to be said. They dance around his mind and get stuck somewhere in his throat.

He’s running down the stairs and he’s snarling and Bigby knows that Beauty is calling after him but he can’t he-

His ears ring, his head hurts, Snow’s in danger.

Beast is talking too, asking questions, demanding answers but Bigby just needs to find Snow.

 _Where_ is she? Business office? Her apartment? Getting groceries? With Crane?

He grabs the phone and dials the business office because if she picks up then he knows she’s okay. The phone doesn’t even give so much as a dial tone and that’s when he remembers it’s utterly busted.

Fuck this phone and making people think it’s okay. He slams the receiver down with far more force than’s warranted and watches it smash into little pieces. _Now_ it’s broken.

He _needs_ to tell Snow, Crane- Snow, Bigby-

His thoughts are spinning and his head is pounding but he feels like he’s just downed several espressos because his skin is buzzing and he feels _awake_.

“Bigby, you need to calm down,” Beauty says authoritatively, and she’s right, he does. He needs to stop and breathe- but there’s no _time_. He can’t-

**Crane’s going to get her,** the little voice hisses delighted, **He’s going to grab her and then he’s going to mak-**

“Everything’s going to be fine, okay, it’s going to be fine.” Beauty continues in that reassuring tone of voice that’s utterly at odds with the voice in his head and the two of them war in his mind.

Bigby keeps pacing with his hands on his hips so he can’t rip out his hair, rip out his skull and make it _stop_.

 **Crane** \- SHUT UP, SHUT UP SHUT UP he thinks. Okay where was Snow that’s what he needs to know, where was Sno-

“Will someone please _explain_ this to me?” Beast shouts, and Bigby couldn’t’ even if he could speak because even his _thoughts_ are running out on him right now and he doesn’t-

“Crane has been stalking Snow White,” Beauty says quietly, but nothing is _ever_ quiet enough, and now it’s all been laid bare.

“Crane has been stalking Snow White.” So simple, 7 syllables (7 dwarves) do bad things come in sevens? Seven, seven, stalking stalking.

“Did she say where she was going?” Beauty asks, and she’s _so_ in control, like Bigby ought to be but he’s also grateful someone else is taking charge. “Where did you see her last?” Beauty continues when he doesn’t’ say anything.

_Where is she?_ Why can’t he _think_? She was going to take Holly to the funeral, he thinks he remembers. But _where_? And did she even get there?

He hadn’t asked, no one would want him there, but now he wished he had because where is she? Where? Where?

**She’s with Crane _._**

Bigby can’t believe that, he _can’t_. Where’s the funeral? Where?

He’s still pacing, grinding down the floor. Where, where. _Why_ is he such a fucking failure? He deserves to fucking _burn_ he-

“Wait-“ Beast speaks up slowly with the air of a man having a realisation. “Isn’t she going to Lily’s funeral?” Bigby stops in his tracks and whirls around to nod as fast as he can. _Fuck_ desperation.

“I was just at the Trip-Trap, and I heard Gren telling some folks about a funeral at the Buckingham Bridge.”

Beauty’s saying something- bars, drinking, whatever.

Bigby snaps his fingers to get Beast’s attention back on him, He ignores the feeling that he’s calling a dog, because now he doesn’t have _time_ for niceties.

“Oh yeah, uh they were leaving as I arrived? I think there were like four of them?”

Fuck.

But maybe this means Snow got out and Crane doesn’t know where she is. It’s _fine_ , he can find her take a cab. He storms out of the open arms, lets the door slam shut behind him and walks down the street. He’s just gearing up for a run when he hears Beauty shout for him to wait.

Despite all his instincts and the feeling of his blood itching beneath his burning skin he turns around.

“Snow’s…” Beauty starts, and Bigby can feel his leg twitching as he waits for her to get to the point, “Snow’s been through a lot. There are things she doesn’t talk about.”

Yeah. She has. Bigby stares back face impassive. Is that all? Can he go? He _needs_ to go.

“Just _please_ be careful when you tell her- and you _should_ tell her… but…” Bigby gives the barest of nods. “You know how you felt when you saw that picture? Well it’s going to be much worse for her. Just remember that.”

Bigby nods again. But there’s only so much he can _do_ and he needs to go, his skin prickling.

He turns around and starts jogging down the street until he finds a cab.

///////////

It doesn’t take long, pretty much as soon as he reaches a major street- out of the seedy side street where the Pudding and Pie lies, there are yellow cabs roaring around.

Still shaking, he flags one down. Once he’s inside he pulls out his pencil and paper, rips off a corner and writes “Buckingham Bridge” on it. Then he hands it over to the cab driver and puts on his biggest scowl.

His leg his going up and down like a jackhammer and he can’t-

Snow, Crane, Crane, Snow, Lily, Blood, Snow, _Crane_.

The cab driver doesn’t comment, and thank god for Mundy cab drivers and how few shits they give. Bigby could be bleeding and they’d only comment to make sure he didn’t get it on the seats.

His hands go from his face to his arms to his hair and his legs jerk. He stares at the world going past outside the window and prays Snow’s alright.

Snow… Crane, Lily, blood, stalking, Snow, Crane, Lily, blood stalking, Snow, Crane, Lily, Blo-

He shakes his head and digs his nails into the exposed flesh of his arms.

 _No_. He’s not getting stuck like this again, he needs to stay here and now so he can fucking _help_.

He pops his knuckles one by one, and then pulls his wads of paper out of his pocket.

He can write down everything he saw at the scene while its’ fresh in his mind, and then he can give it to Snow with the photographs and then they’ll be able to catch Crane easier. Because Bigby will have the fucking information and not just be a useless waste of space.

Bloodstain, coffin. Flowers- match. More instructions, photos, photos, _photos_. Ripped dress. All the shit that made no _sense_.

Remember to thank Nerissa- or not. Don’t want Georgie suspicious.

Don’t interrupt funeral when he arrives. Unless it’s finished and then Snow’s left but-

 _No_. She’s still there and if she’s not he’ll sort it out later, but she’ll be there. She has to be.

**Crane…**

Bigby clenches his jaw and shakes his head.

Goes back to writing.

It’s too long until he arrives at the bridge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's the end of Smoke and Mirrors (and some of Crooked Mile because it made more sense to include the entirety of the Open Arms stuff.)  
> Also it wasn't until I was going through the game again to write this bit that I realised how much of the murder scene makes no sense- like seriously you can dispose of a body but can't even be bothered to strip the bloody sheets- let alone clear up the other evidence?  
> It seems pretty likely that they wanted someone to find it to make Crane take the fall.  
> Hope you've enjoyed so far, thanks for reading.


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